


Of Cloudgazers And Knife-Ears

by Thesupremehunter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BioWare levels of sarcasm, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Magic Archer, Multi, Multiple Wardens, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Build, Spirits, The Wardens might seem angry at the start but they've all just had very bad days, War, Weird Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesupremehunter/pseuds/Thesupremehunter
Summary: An exiled prince, full of anger and righteousness, struggles to lead a band of not-so-merry Grey Wardens. A casteless thief, railing against the world with bitter humour and failed pickpocketing. An Alienage girl driven from her home and family after a bloody rampage. And a Dalish hunter who, inexplicably, is also a hedge mage. Ferelden, and all of Thedas, had better start praying.





	1. Journey to the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm going to be really honest and just say that I have no idea what I'm doing with this. This whole thing grew out of several core ideas I had about "What If?" scenarios, and now it's looking to become a novel-length beast. So, that's great, and I hope people out there enjoy it.

With another swing of his great sword, another darkspawn crashed to the ground. The condemned son of House Aeducan heaved the blade out of the twisted creature’s corpse. He growled, shifting the weapon in his grip as he surveyed the area for more. He was long past the point where it would amuse him to picture them with Bhelen's face. Now, it was a slog. He wiped the tainted blood from the blade on the genlock’s armour, and moved on. The blade Lord Harrowmont had given him had no sheath, so he was forced to carry it. His arms groaned in protest as he walked. He didn’t know how much time had passed since the gates of Orzammar were slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing down the Deep Roads, shrouding the former prince in isolation. Days, perhaps, but he ignored the protests of his stomach and the ache in his eyes that pushed him to sleep. He had to. He couldn’t afford to rest much, not down here, not amongst the darkspawn that would taint him, the deepstalkers that would consume him, the spiders that would trap him. His body could do little more than put one foot in front of the other, and his mind could barely focus on the Stone. He couldn't get lost. He couldn't die down here, alone. Afraid. He could admit he was afraid. He had nobody to pretend for. He had trained amongst the best warriors the kingdom had to offer, yet even he tired after so much combat. After so long on constant alert. He would not survive his brother’s schemes only to be felled by a stray drop of darkspawn blood. The finest son of Orzammar would not die alone in these blighted tunnels.

A noise from behind him. He whirled, screaming arms already raising his sword. His eyes darted back and forth. The darkness would offer no shelter to whatever followed him. The noise came again, further away, and his shoulders slumped, just a fraction. He waited several moments, ears straining, before he turned and resumed his journey. He hoped the Paragons knew of his innocence and would smile on him. Preferably before he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He would find the Grey Wardens, he would survive the Joining, and he would find a way to avenge Trian and himself. He swore he would.

Hours more passed as he ventured ever further into the Deep Roads. Further from home. Further from safety. Closer to death. He shook his head, ridding himself of the morbid pessimism. Combat, and the subpar quality of his armour – looted from various corpses scattered throughout the Deep Roads – had not been kind to him. He now sported numerous cuts and bruises, some of which he was embarrassed to admit came from tripping over rocks. To make matters worse, the ill-fitting leather chafed against his skin. He missed his own armour. He missed his own sword. He missed Gorim, he missed his father, he even caught himself missing Trian. Not Bhelen though. The only way he could possibly miss that snake is if he killed him too swiftly when he finally got the chance. Lost in his thoughts, he almost stumbled over a darkspawn corpse. He froze, considering for a terrifying instant that he had gotten lost and was now going in circles. But no, his Stone sense had not misled him. This was a fresh kill, and not his own. Unbidden, hope flared within his chest. For who was better at killing darkspawn than the Wardens? With renewed enthusiasm, he moved ahead, eyes and ears keen for any hint of Warden activity.

Over the next several minutes, he found several more corpses. Each one was fresher than the last. Finally, he heard talking and the flicker of light off the walls up ahead. Part of him wanted to rush ahead, but the rest of him knew better. Not all people down here are non-hostile like the Legion or the Wardens. It was with trepidation that he crept closer, as quietly as he could. For once he was thankful for the leather armour; chainmail or plate armour would have been significantly louder. He rounded the final corner, blade at the ready just in case.

His eyes darted rapidly between the people he could see. There were several of them, walking away from him. He counted four, one of whom was the man he spoke to at the feast. The feast in his honour, before he was betrayed, before he was confronted with the corpse of one brother and the villainy of another. He walked towards them steadily, preparing himself to speak. Before he could, however, one of the men turned and jumped in surprise.

“By the Maker, it’s a dwarf!” Varlim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Of course I’m a dwarva. You’re hardly going to find a Qunari in the Deep Roads. Now, Ogres on the other hand…_

The man he’d spoken to in Orzammar – Duncan, he now recalled – stepped forward. “Lord Aeducan!” Varlim grimaced at the mention of his family name. Former family name, he reminded himself harshly. By the time he refocused on the Warden, it seemed he’d missed half a question. “-alone? Where are your troops?”

“I am Lord Aeducan no longer.” He replied. His voice sounded as though he’d gargled gravel at some point. He grimaced. Ancestors, he needed a drink.

“Ah. You have been made to walk the Deep Roads then.” Varlim moved to speak, but the first human interrupted.

“You mean you were exiled? What happened?” Varlim glared at the man. His face was far too angular to be normal.

“I do not think matters of dwarven honour are any business of ours. You need not answer, friend.” Duncan interceded before Varlim could spit out the bitter words sitting on his tongue. He was about to open his mouth – again – when a soft voice came from behind the men.

“Well, I should think they’re the concern of a fellow dwarva.” A figure shouldered their way through, and Varlim caught sight of a face with the most insufferable smirk he had ever seen. And dealing with the Assembly, he’d seen a lot of them.

His eyes focused on the garish brand on the other dwarva’s face. Varlim blinked in surprise. There was something familiar about him, the way he held himself… “The duster who dishonoured the Provings. I thought you’d been executed. Well, this explains the foul mood the Guard Captain was in.” The castless dwarva’s smirk grew, causing the brand on his cheek to twist.

“I’m so glad tales of my exploits reached through the gilded walls of the palace, Your Highness.” The condescension with which he spat the honorific was palpable. Varlim felt his eyebrow twitch in irritation. Duncan cleared his throat, stepping forward before the brewing tension could go any further.

“The brutal intrigue of the dwarven court continues, then. Your father intimated as much.” Varlim’s throat tightened. His father. He had simply accepted Bhelen’s claim without question, sending his son to die in darkness and despair rather than investigate the truth. “There is no reason for you to walk these Deep Roads and die for something you did not do. You have already proven yourself both resourceful and skilled, and I would expect nothing less from an Aeducan.” Varlim raised his gaze, making eye contact with the Warden. He patiently waited for the offer that he knew was coming. He also ignored the derisive snort the duster let out. _Very noble of me to let that slide. _“I have been searching for those with your level of ability, like ser Brosca here. Your exploits in the Deep Roads set you apart. As leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, I would like to formally invite you to join our order.”__

The exiled prince bowed his head. “I would be honoured.” The statement was simple. It needed no further elaboration. It was a refreshing change from all the pomposity of the Assembly.

“Then welcome,” came the Warden’s equally simple reply. “We leave immediately for Ostagar. Ser Brosca and yourself will be inducted into our order formally there, where King Cailan waits with his army to face the darkspawn hordes. Unfortunately, we have no equipment to spare. However, our road will take us through Denerim. Perhaps we shall be able to find you something better than scavenged leather there.”

Varlim bowed his head once again. “I would be grateful, Warden-Commander. I shall make do with what I have for now.” Duncan nodded, before turning away to address both the Wardens and the two dwarves.

“We cannot rest here long. The longer we tarry, the graver the threat from the Wilds becomes. Lord Aeducan, we can give you some time to recover your strength. Alistair, fetch our friend some food and drink. Maker knows he could use both.” One of the Wardens jumped – Varlim presumed that must then be Alistair – and nodded so vigorously that he briefly worried that the man’s head might fall off.

“Of course Duncan. Right away!” Alistair then bounded over to where the Wardens kept their supplies. Evidently they’d set up a temporary place to rest here. Varlim was thankful for that.

“He’s a bit like an over-excited puppy, but don’t worry, you get used to it.” Varlim let out an amused snort before he realised that it was the duster who spoke, not one of the Wardens. Alistair soon came over, with a rough-looking loaf of bread and a cup full of something in his hands. Varlim prayed to the Ancestors that it was ale. _Stones, I’d even take mosswine at this point. _He grabbed them from him perhaps a little too roughly, barely taking the time to thank the man before he tore through the food. Days in the Deep Roads made one ravenous, he discovered. He then quickly threw back the drink, which had an interesting flavour to say the least.__

Based on Alistair’s slightly bug-eyed expression, Varlim suspected he was supposed to not drink it like that. “Is there a problem?” He looked between the now empty cup and the young man standing before him.

Alistair nodded softly, seeming slightly shocked.  
“Uh… yes. I mean, no! That’s- you just…” He blinked several times, apparently struggling with the situation. “You just downed Conscription Ale like it was nothing…”

Varlim raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between the boy and the empty cup. “Well, you’ve clearly never had dwarven ale. That would turn you inside out. Is there any more?” Nodding mutely, Alistair quickly rushed off with the cup and brought it back, full once more, with another, smaller hunk of bread to go with it.

“This is all we can spare for now, I’m afraid.” He said, having found his voice again. Varlim nodded in thanks and tore through them both just as fast as he’d consumed the first lot. As he wiped his mouth off on his arm, he heard a small laugh come from somewhere beside him.

“I think you’ve traumatised the poor man. Though, I must say, I rather thought you’d demand a knife and fork for your fine dining experience. Aren’t nobles all about pomp and etiquette?” The duster’s dry wit would surely grate on Varlim’s nerves sooner rather than later.

“This may surprise you, but not all nobles are concerned with nothing more than who said what about so-and-so’s second cousin and which lady ate with the wrong spoon at dinner.” The heat in his words surprised even Varlim. Not that he’d apologise to the other dwarva. He hadn’t fallen that far yet. The casteless dwarva said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow to go along with that seemingly permanent smirk.

Varlim was almost thankful when Alistair broke the tension that had started to grow. “So, how exactly did you make it this far? How long did it take you to find us? Only, we’re several days away from Orzammar on foot, and I can’t imagine that they’d let you ride a bronto into exile."

Varlim’s eyes dropped towards the ground. This was not his preferred topic of conversation. He swore he could feel the bags underneath his eyes grow. His voice finally forced its way out of his throat. “It took me three days.” It grated on his ears. “Every time I slept, I expected to never wake up. Every time I ate, I feared the taint would take me." His voice built in intensity, his rage finding an outlet in his words. "Three days on my own, scavenging amongst rocks for scraps of armour, scraping lichen off rocks to survive, killing any sodding darkspawn that got in my way.” He could feel the familiar anger rising within him. For what felt like the thousandth time, he cursed Bhelen for doing this to him.

Alistair blinked several times, seemingly taken aback by the Varlim’s anger. “Right.” He drew out the word. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore. One of the great things about the Wardens is how well supplied we are. All the food makes up for the hordes of darkspawn, if you ask me.” The joke – Varlim really was in a generous mood, calling it such – hung in the air, Alistair’s awkward chuckle trailing off shortly afterwards.

The casteless dwarva sighed, shifting on his feet. “Paragon’s teeth, this is going to be a long journey.”

* * *

He was right. Why was he always right? He could hear Rica now. ‘Really, Lotan. I could list a dozen times you were wrong just this year, so stop it with that nug-dung.’ He smiled at the thought, though his heart clenched. He’d probably never see her again. He let out a shuddery breath at the thought. Well, at least she was safe from Beraht. That bastard can’t hurt her from the grave. He shook his head, stopping himself from following the anger or grief any further. Overhearing Varlim arguing with a Warden, he smirked. What an ideal distraction.

“Are you honestly disagreeing with an Orzammar dwarva on which way to go underground? Are you mad, or simply stupid? I don’t care how recently the Wardens were down here! The tunnel you want to go down has collapsed since then. We need to go this way. That will lead to the surface entrance, and in less time to boot.”

Even from where he was standing, almost a dozen feet away, Lotan could see the anger in the prince’s features. How that man was seriously considered for the throne of Orzammar, Lotan had no idea. A day travelling with these Wardens, and already he’s fighting with them. Time to stir the pot.

"Well, you never know. These Wardens have dedicated their lives to fighting darkspawn, even down here, so I’m sure they know a lot more about the state of the Deep Roads than some upstart prince who never got out of the Diamond Quarter.” He tried to suppress his grin as the other dwarva rounded on him, fire in his eyes.

“What would you know, duster? Your only experience of the Deep Roads would be stories from lyrium smugglers, all of whom avoid the dangerous areas. I’ve been out here before. The… expedition to Aeducan Thaig,” his voice hardened and his fists clenched, “was simply the first time I’d led my own command.” The prince glared at him. Lotan merely raised an eyebrow to accompany the smirk. After all, that had annoyed him the first time. And given how the glare was soon joined by a snarl, it worked just as well here.

“And yet you’ve never been to the surface, or anywhere near it. The laws around it are too strict for a prince to dare such a thing.” The other man’s nostrils flared. Ancestors, had Lotan really pissed him off that much?

“No, but I can sense the direction we need to go. The Stone feels different as it nears the surface. Just as it feels that the way this idiot,” he waved one hand towards the poor fool who had initially annoyed him, “wants to go, is blocked. So, even if I didn’t have more recent knowledge of the Deep Roads, I’d know based on my Stone sense.” He prince smirked, surprising Lotan. “Even one cursed by the Ancestors such as you should be able to tell that. Or are you stone-blind even before we reach the surface?”

Lotan couldn’t help himself. He chuckled. “Well, I’ll give you that one. Aye, you’re right about the Stone.” He looked over to the Warden the prince had been arguing with. “Sorry friend, but you’d better go tell Duncan that we’re taking an alternate route.” The man walked away towards the other Wardens, muttering curses about 'sodding dwarves' as he went. Lotan turned his eyes back to the other dwarva. He was still fuming silently. “Well, Varly old pal, shall we go see if the surface lives up to all the fuss?”

Varlim’s brow furrowed deeper, and he growled – actually growled! – at Lotan. “Call me ‘Varly’ again, and I’ll run you through.” He too stormed away towards the Wardens, who at this point had started walking down the other tunnel.

Lotan grinned. “You didn’t deny that we’re pals though!” He called after the prince, following him.

“Blight take you, duster!”

* * *

It was a nice gateway, really. Not as large as the Gates of Orzammar, of course, but then Lotan supposed that impressing visitors wasn’t important out here in the ass-end of the Deep Roads. Back when there were visitors to the Deep Roads, that is. Now there were just darkspawn, Legionnaires, and Wardens. _And a former Carta dwarva almost shaking with nerves _.__ He clenched a fist against his side, trying to will the tension out of his body through his hand. It wasn’t working. The presence of the Wardens certainly wasn’t helping. He supposed he had to give them some credit for not acting overtly impatient. Varlim was closest to him, just a few feet away. He seemed much calmer than Lotan felt. Or maybe he was just better at concealing his emotions. Given the amount of intrigue and betrayal in Orzammar politics, hiding how you feel would be beneficial. It was almost sad, the thought of Varlim as a young prince, raised from childhood not knowing who to trust. Given what happened to him, it seemed like he hadn’t quite learned that lesson well enough. Not that Lotan was feeling sorry for the former prince. That would be absurd.

__He was jolted out of his thoughts by said former prince clearing his throat. “Well. The surface. Mere feet away.” Maybe he was nervous. That was terse, even for him._ _

__Lotan nodded slowly. “Yeah. Well, guess we should get it over with. I doubt that the darkspawn horde down south will just wait for the two of us.” Despite his words, neither of them moved for several moments._ _

“Indeed. How bad can it be, really? It surely can’t be worse than fighting darkspawn.” Without saying anything more, Varlim started marching forward. Military precision, even in that. Lotan joined him, cursing himself for letting the deep lord get one over him like that as he rushed to catch up.

He swore he heard one of the Wardens mutter something. It sounded suspiciously like 'Finally.' They quickly stopped when Duncan shot them a reproachful look. Lotan forced himself to nod at the older Warden in thanks. He hoped Varlim hadn’t heard. The last thing he needed was the other dwarva coming to blows with their future comrades. Ahead of them, Alistair was pulling the gateway open. The doors swung inwards, but Lotan was prevented from seeing anything by the blinding light that flooded into the tunnel. He hissed, shielding his eyes.

He could hear Varlim curse. “Blood of the Paragons!” Lotan had to agree. After a few moments of blinking the spots out of his eyes, he lowered his hand and looked through the gate. It was… bright. That was the first word that came to his mind. Stepping through the gate with Varlim, his eyes dragged themselves upwards, staring up into the sky. A wave of vertigo swept over him and he stumbled to the side. He managed to catch himself against the rock adjacent to the gateway. He forced his eyes shut and tilted his head back towards the ground. _Ancestor’s tits. There’s so much sky…_ He lifted a hand to rest on his face, holding his head still until the last feelings of nausea and dizziness had dissipated.

Opening his eyes, he saw Varlim struggling much like him. He hadn’t staggered against the rock like Lotan had, but he certainly looked uncomfortable. He looked around at the other Wardens. Some of them were looking at them. A few had smiles, or amusement in their eyes. Well, that was annoying. He’d like to see them undergo a drastic change like this without reacting. Duncan and Alistair at least, were being respectful, along with a few others. Walking forward, he overheard some of their conversation.

“-need you to make your way to West Hill and see if we can find faster transport to Denerim. We can't walk the entire distance. We don’t have that kind of time.” Duncan’s voice was stern and earnest, yet kind. No wonder the Wardens all respected him. That was the kind of leader people fell over themselves to work for. Not like Beraht, the blighted sod.

Alistair nodded in response, before hurrying in the direction of what Lotan presumed must be the West Hill they talked about. He’d heard stories from Carta dwarves who had been to the surface for jobs about surface transport. He wasn’t looking forward to these ‘horses’ of theirs. By the look on Varlim’s face, he wasn’t either. Great. Something else he had in common with a sodding noble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please, any feedback, comments, criticism, whatever, feel free to let me know.


	2. Recruitment In Denerim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two newest recruits to the Grey Wardens arrive in Denerim, a wedding goes awry, and Duncan walks away satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few warnings I guess? Standard City Elf Origin things, implied sexual assault etc. Also somewhat graphic violence.

After days of travel, and endless muttered complaints from the duster, Denerim sat before them. The city wrapped around the mountain, descending onto the plain as though some giant had merely scattered buildings within the walls with no regard for where they landed. It looked smaller than Orzammar. That was Varlim’s conclusion as they approached the gates to the city. And based on the way many buildings seemed to overlap, it was more crowded. That wasn’t something he’d thought possible, considering the overpopulation of Dust Town. Even the Commons could overflow with people on a busy day. As Duncan greeted the guards at the gate, Varlim continued his evaluation of the city. Everything seemed much poorer by comparison to his eye, as they made their way through the market. Merchants selling simple furs rather than fine silks, nobles wearing glassy gemstones rather than those that truly shone. It made sense. One was the centre of the international lyrium trade, one of the last bastions of dwarva civilisation; the other, the capital of what was essentially the backwater of Thedas. Varlim frowned at his line of thought. Perhaps his bitterness over his exile was seeping into his opinions of Ferelden.

His eyes darted around the market as he followed Duncan’s lead. Gorim had said he’d make his way to Denerim. Varlim knew it was a fool’s hope for him to have reached the city already, let alone that he’d be in the marketplace at the same time as Varlim, but still he looked. The early hour was hardly helping matters in that regard. With an inward sigh, he resigned himself to making sure the duster wasn’t picking any pockets. After a moment’s consideration of the state of his armour, he amended that to making sure the duster wasn’t picking _too many_ pockets. Hopefully Varlim could at least find something that didn’t chafe. Looking ahead at where Duncan was leading them, he noted the increased presence of the guard and the general deterioration in the quality of streets and buildings. _Well. Perhaps some things are the same no matter where you are._

Curious, he altered his pace to bring him into step with Alistair. “What exactly is this district of Denerim? I don’t recall any Ferelden dignitaries making mention of a… slum, for lack of a better term.”

Somewhere behind them, the duster snorted. “And I’m sure the Assembly were all falling over each other to talk about Dust Town.”

Varlim rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored him, instead focusing on Alistair’s response.

“Well,” the Warden began, clearly hesitant. “This is the part of the city where all the elves live. It’s… not exactly nice. Honestly, I have no idea why Duncan is bringing us here. You’d have to ask him about that. But, yes, this is the Alienage.” 

* * *

Oraya’s eyes snapped open. _Maker’s breath, I’m getting married today._ She groaned and rolled over, shoving her head beneath her threadbare pillow. Maybe if she ignored it, it would go away. That worked for some things, right? Through the fabric over her ears, she heard the door open. She sighed internally. There went her hope for going back to sleep. And for pretending that it wasn’t her wedding day. She heard soft footsteps come to a halt next to her bed. Oraya refused to look to see who it was. It was either Shianni or her father, as Soris would be too busy trying to avoid everyone to come check on her.

“Wake up, Oraya! Why are you still in bed? It’s your big day!” Well, that answered that. She refused to move to speak to Shianni, instead letting out a pitiable groan.

“Just a little longer…” Even as she said the words, she knew it’d be useless. For Shianni to be here her father must have let her through, which meant that resisting would get her nowhere. Stalling, on the other hand, might still be worth a shot.

“Come on! Don’t make me use cold water again.” Shianni teased. Oraya finally pulled her head from beneath her pillow to glare at Shianni. It did nothing to wipe the smile off her cousin’s face. That was not a day they talked about. Not that it mattered, Oraya had already misplaced the buckets around the house. _On accident, of course. I’d never do something like that on purpose ._

“You do remember what today is don’t you?” her cousin asked as she finally pushed herself upright. As soon as she had, she recoiled. Someone had started celebrating very early indeed.

Oraya raised an eyebrow. “According to your breath, it’s get-drunk-before-noon day.” It was genuinely surprising, to be honest. Shianni was usually more responsible than that.

Shianni scoffed, though the way she swayed ever so slightly betrayed her. “No, you idiot. You’re getting married today! And Soris too!” Oraya rolled her eyes. As though she could possibly forget her own wedding day, even without the ridiculous levels of attention it was getting from around the Alienage. Shianni either hadn’t noticed her eye-rolling or deliberately ignored it, as she continued to talk. “That’s what I came to tell you! Your groom, Nelaros…” Shianni paused, presumably to build up some dramatic tension, in her own mind at least, “he’s here early!”

Oraya suppressed a sigh, instead climbing out of bed and grabbing her dress out of the wardrobe. “I don’t like the idea of this arranged match business.” This must have been the twentieth time she’d expressed that sentiment this month alone, and again it was ignored.

“And who else are you going to marry?” her cousin began. The thought of nobody popped into Oraya’s head. “Besides, I already snuck a peek; he’s handsome!” Oraya tuned her rambling out, stripping out of her nightclothes and pulling her wedding dress on. She tuned back in to what Shianni was saying as her cousin stepped forward to help do up the back. “-weddings are so much fun! You’re so lucky!”

Oraya huffed. “And how does Soris feel?” Her other cousin had been incredibly nervous about the whole arrangement. Oraya just hoped he didn’t faint at any point.

“I think he’s just glad he’s not alone. He’s sweating so much, he looks like a human.” The strange comment, combined with the way Shianni giggled at her own joke showed that yes, she truly had been celebrating the double wedding for quite some time now. “All right, I’ll stop tormenting you. I should go talk to the other bridesmaids and find my dress.” She trailed off, and Oraya rolled her eyes. She’d focused on getting to the wine before getting ready. That was very reassuring. She was jolted out of her thoughts by Shianni talking again as she walked out of her bedroom. “Oh, and Soris said that he’ll be waiting for you outside. So move it!”

“Maker keep us, Maker protect us, Maker keep us, Maker protect us-” Oraya winced as she regained consciousness. That noble had a mean right hook. She gingerly pressed her hand against her face, recoiling with a hiss as she felt out the bruise that was surely forming. She heard Shianni break off whatever she was saying as she pushed herself into a sitting position.

“Oh, thank the Maker you’ve come to. We were so worried…” Oraya took a moment to survey the room. Small, dim, and not particularly clean. She guessed from the smell that it was some kind of storage room near the kitchens. She quickly looked over the four women crouching, sitting, or praying in front of her.

“Is everyone alright?” she asked, ignoring the undercurrent of anger swirling in her gut. That could wait. Getting the others out was her priority.

“We’re scared but unharmed. So far.” That was good. Oraya could work with scared. Before she could think of a plan, Valora continued talking. “They locked us in here to wait until that bastard is ‘ready for us.’”

Oraya nodded decisively. Time to escape. “Then we need to get out of here.”

“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.” Oraya’s eyes shifted to the bridesmaid who was speaking. One of Valora’s, she didn’t recognise her. “The door is locked and solid, and we’re unarmed!” Oraya frowned, torn over her earlier decision to leave her dagger at home. True, it would have been useful, but it was almost certain that either the guards or the nobles would have found and taken it. The thought of their grubby hands anywhere near her mother’s dagger caused bile to rise in her throat. She tuned out the frantic prayers of the other bridesmaid. Some friend of Shianni’s, if she remembered correctly. She stood, steadying herself against the wall just in case the noble’s fist had rattled something around. She took a moment to check for any dizziness or nausea. Finding none, she pushed herself off the wall and started searching the room. If they were being held near the kitchens, perhaps there was a spare carving knife in there. Or a cleaver. Or a heavy rolling pin. She was very open to ideas.

After looking around the room, searching in crates, even feeling above the doorframe for a spare key, Oraya kicked the wall in frustration. She instantly regretted it. “Blast it all!” She grabbed at her foot with a hiss, rubbing at her now throbbing toes.

“Look, we’ll… do what they want, go home, and try to forget this ever happened!” Oraya frowned at the bridesmaid’s words. Well, at least the other one had stopped praying aloud.

“She’s right. It’ll be worse if we resist.” No. Absolutely not. Oraya refused to even consider that as an option. She’d been trained to fight for a reason, and if there were ever a situation to use those skills, this was it.

“It’ll be worse if we don’t!” She was glad to hear that Shianni was being responsible again. The severity of the situation must have flushed the wine out of her brain.

“Someone’s coming!” Oraya moved as the bridesmaid spoke again. She wasn’t going to let this happen without a struggle. She manoeuvred herself so she was at the edge of the group, ready to leap into action if she saw an opening.

“Be quiet. Don’t do anything until I say.” The last thing she needed was for one of the others to rush into something foolish, or to antagonise them needlessly. The door opened. Several guards piled in, all of whom had various sadistic or sickening looks plastered on their leering faces. Bile rose in her throat once more.

“Hello, wenches. We’re your escorts to Lord Vaughan’s little party.” The loathsome man who spoke must have been their leader. Oraya hated him already. It was one thing to be forced into doing something like this, but to do it willingly? She hoped she got to hit him.

“Stay away from us!” The other bridesmaid – Oraya still couldn’t remember her name – tried to get away from the guards, starting forward as though to try dash past them. Oraya didn’t quite see what happened, but the next thing she knew blood sprayed through the air and the woman collapsed in front of her, blood pouring out of a savage gash across her chest. Oraya couldn’t tear her eyes away, fixated on the way her eyes flailed this way and that as she choked on her own blood.

“You killed her!” The words reached her ears as though through water. Beneath the paralysis, the undercurrent of anger roared into life. Her hands clenched into fists at her side. Forget hitting him. That human was going to die.

“I suppose that’s what happens when you try teaching whores some respect.” She could hear the sick grin in his voice. Maker, she wished she had a weapon. “Now, you grab the little flower cowering in the corner. Horace and I’ll take the homely bride and the drunk.” Her head snapped up. Guards seized the other women, dragging them out of the room. Some more willingly than others. She prayed Shianni didn’t get herself killed. “You two, bind the last one.” The leader’s voice started to fade as he marched the others out. Oraya’s hands still itched to slit his throat. “She’s the scrapper.”

Oraya smirked, more of a savage twist of the mouth than anything. Her auburn hair hung over her face, so the two guards left to deal with her couldn’t see the fury burning in her eyes. Mother always liked her hair. Before humans like these animals killed her. “Don’t worry. We’ll be perfect gentlemen.” The words were nice, but the guard’s tone was anything but. Could corpses be gentlemen? She didn’t know.

The other guard stepped forward. Her eyes flicked to him. “Now, you heard the captain. Be a good little wench or you’ll end up like your friend there.” She spied the dagger hanging off the other guard’s belt. If she could just get to it…

“Yes, come closer. I’ll behave, honest.” The words felt sick and oily sliding over her tongue, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. But she needed them closer.

“That’s a good girl.” The guards took a few steps closer, one reaching behind him for a loop of rope on his belt. Behind them, the door swung open with a creak. They turned to look, and Oraya’s heart soared as she saw Soris standing there, sword in hand.

“Uh… hello?” Not quite the dramatic entrance of a hero, but it was so typically Soris that she had to smother a laugh.

“Oh, look at this.” One of the guards sneered, stepping towards him ominously. “A little elfling with a stolen sword.” She looked into Soris’ eyes, and caught the flicker that clued her into what he was about to do. He dropped to a crouch and slid the sword across the floor, between the guards, and right into Oraya’s waiting hand. She twirled it through the air, testing the balance as the guards turned back to her. Fear now flickered onto their features. It looked much better than the sadistic pleasure that was there before. She grinned.

“Oh, sod.” They were backing up in earnest now. She leapt into action before they could reach for their own swords. With one solid thrust, her blade cut into the leather armour of the guard to her left, the momentum of her movement carrying it right through his chest. His eyes widened in shock, blood flowing up his throat and out his mouth as she pulled her blade back. He slumped to the ground, eyes glassing over as she whirled on the other man. Before he could blink, his throat opened in a crimson maw, blood spurting out of the wound. It covered himself, Oraya, and the room around them as he joined his fellow guard on the floor. She flicked her blade to the side to get rid of most of the blood coating it, then looked down at herself. She grimaced, doing her best to wipe the blood off.

By the time she looked up, Soris was kneeling next to the dead bridesmaid. He closed her eyes, shaking his head. “I… can’t believe they killed her!” He stood and turned, frantically looking Oraya over for wounds. “Are you all right? They… didn’t hurt you, did they?” In his eyes she saw the unspoken question. ‘Did they touch you?’

She shook her head, doing her best to dismiss his concern. “I’m fine now. Just shaken.” Her eyes drifted to the three corpses. _Maker. I killed them. Just like that. I’m… I’m a murderer now._ She squeezed her eyes shut, but that did nothing to get rid of the sight. It would probably stay imprinted on the inside of her eyelids for days, if not weeks. She looked up to see Soris looking at her, as though he was expecting a response. Her eyes flicked to the sword in her grip. “Where did you get the sword?” It was the only thing her mind latched onto. Weapons were illegal for elves.

“That Grey Warden, Duncan, gave Nelaros and me his sword and crossbow, but that’s all we have.” She nodded. That made sense; the Warden certainly had seemed like a good man. Wait- Nelaros?

Her head snapped up. “Nelaros is here?” What was he doing? He was the son of a smith, certainly not trained for any of this. Not like she was.

“Yes, he’s the reason we’re here. He lost it on those who wanted to ‘hope for the best’…” his voice trailed off. He looked hesitant about something. And… remorseful? “I… didn’t know what to do.”

She smiled, a soft quirk of the lips, and walked closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” It seemed to be the right thing to say.

Soris perked up, determination entering his eyes. “Thanks. I couldn’t let him go alone.” He placed a hand over hers, squeezing gently before stepping back and letting their hands drop. “Nelaros is guarding the end of the hall. Let’s figure this out with him.”

The next few minutes after that seemed to blur together to her mind. There was a chef who tried to stop them, that she remembered. And drinking guards. She killed them. She killed the guards in the hallway. She killed the guards in the armoury. So much blood already, so much death, and they weren’t even close to rescuing the other women. Now she was standing in front of an open chest, strapping leather vambraces to her arms. She presumed they were training equipment for new recruits, given the significantly smaller size than the other pieces of armour around the room. Though they still weren’t designed for an elf, as evidenced by how tightly she had to strap them to prevent them from falling off.

She walked around the room, testing out how all the armour felt with movement. The brigandine was a bit loose, but honestly she’d prefer that over it being too tight. The boots were too big, but spare socks stuffed into the toes fixed most of that problem. She could already tell that this armour would be much better for fighting than her dress, the remains of which lay in a heap next to her. It was covered in blood, and ripped in several places from her movement in combat. She picked up her sword and sheathed it, slipping a large knife into the other side of her belt. She always felt better with two blades in her hands. It was how her mother had taught her.

She looked over at Soris, waiting by the door. He still looked somewhat ill. It was good he had the ranged weapon, Oraya didn’t know if he could deal with close combat. “Right. I’m ready to move on. Unless you want to grab some armour yourself?” he’d refused earlier, but she thought she’d ask just in case. His clothes wouldn’t hold up against weapons for long. Or at all, really.

Soris shook his head, then stopped when he started to turn green. “…No, no I’m fine. Let’s just go find Nelaros.” By the way he kept some distance from her, she could tell he found it unsettling how easily she was carving her way through the guards with minimal reaction. It hurt, but like the impact of all the death she was causing, she had to deal with it later. Another lesson from her mother. ‘Aya, when you kill someone, you might feel shock, horror, or disgust. You must resist the urge to give in to those feelings. To do so in a fight means death.’

She made her way down the hall, reaching the area where they were supposed to meet Nelaros. She opened the door, just in time to see the captain’s blade cut through Nelaros’ chest. The captain didn’t even wipe off his blade as he looked up at Oraya and Soris.

“See? I told you there’d be more. Elves run in packs. Like rodents.” The coil of disgust she’d had in her gut ever since she killed those first two guards finally unravelled, rearing its head in a tide of fury that flooded through her veins.

“Should we keep the knife-eared bitch alive?” One of the guards behind him indicated towards her. Oraya smiled, feeling her face morph into something dark. Something wrathful. The guards didn’t seem to notice this, too busy discussing what to do with the two of them.

The captain shook his head, shifting the sword in his grip. “They killed our boys.” So he did see the bodies in the hall behind them. Good. Let him see his fate. “She dies.” _We’ll see who dies, bastard._

Oraya dropped into a combat position, drawing her blades. “I’m going to enjoy this…” And she knew she would. The anger inside her had reached a crescendo, blood roaring in her ears, drowning out everything but the need to kill the men standing in front of her.

She barely heard the captain. “Stupid wench. We’ll show you how men fight.” They could try.

She whirled into action, ducking beneath the first inept swing of the captain to drive her dagger into his thigh. He yelled in pain, falling onto one knee. Maybe that would teach them not to underestimate her. Not that they’d have a chance to think on their mistakes. She kicked out to her right and a guard toppled to the ground. She leapt on him, driving her blade through his throat. Ignoring his death rattle, she rolled to the side. She stood and heard a roar from behind her. She spun, lifting her blade to block the oncoming strike. The shock reverberated up her arm. She grunted, but kept her footing. She looked up at the guard. Seeing the anger on his face, her grin only grew wider. And there it was. Fear in his eyes. _Good._ Keeping her sword locked with his, she drove her dagger into his side. The blade sank between two of his ribs. He groaned, but somehow kept fighting. His left hand dropped onto the hilt of her dagger, holding both it and her hand in place.

She heard the thunk of Soris’ crossbow. A moment later, she heard the captain curse. At his cry, the guard she was fighting looked over his shoulder. She used the opportunity to wrench her dagger out and drive it through the gap in the armour where his shoulder met his neck. He let out a strangled croak and fell. Right on top of her. Eyes wide, she shoved the body away as hard as she could, sword falling out of her grasp. She hit the ground, the corpse landing to her side a moment later. She thanked Andraste for the armour. The fall hurt, but she could still fight.

Scrambling to her feet, she picked up her sword. She locked eyes with the captain, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other gripping his sword. His expression was pained, sweat trickling from his brow. He snarled. “Mark my words – you’ll die for this, bitch!” He started to hobble forward, probably doing his best to charge at her.

She raised her left hand and threw her dagger at him. It spun through the air before sinking into his chest. He stopped dead in his tracks. His face started to turn red as he choked. Crimson spluttered out of his mouth with every cough until he finally fell to the floor, blood staining the carpet.

She took a moment to catch her breath, sheathing her sword and readjusting her armour where it had moved during the fight. She walked over to the captain’s body and looked down at him. Even though he was dead, her anger remained. She almost wished he had lived longer so she could give him a slower death. She frowned at that thought. _No… no, that would be wrong. This was self-defence. Not revenge._ She quickly bent down and tugged her dagger out of his chest, wiping the blood off on him before tucking it back into her belt.

She turned to see Soris closing Nelaros’ eyes, just as he had done with the bridesmaid earlier. “Nelaros… I’m so sorry.” At the sorrow in his voice the anger flooded out of her.

She slumped, walking over and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come. Let’s find the others and leave this place.”

He nodded, standing slowly. “Yes, of course.” She patted his shoulder before pulling her hand back, giving him a faint smile. She could tell it didn’t reach her eyes. She turned and moved through the only other door in the room. Vaughan had to be somewhere in the estate. She refused to consider the possibility that he had left with the women. She stormed down the hall, throwing open doors and looking inside. There was nothing. Storerooms, guest bedrooms, something that looked like a… games room? She didn’t know what nobles did in their estates. Right now, she didn’t care either. With each empty room she became more anxious. What if they were already dead? What if Vaughan had sent for more guards and they were now walking into a trap? She forced herself to focus. ‘Concentrate on your goal. Distractions are things you can’t afford’. Repeating her mother’s words like a mantra, she came to an ornate door on what felt like the other side of the estate. She sent a prayer to the Maker that the others were here, and unharmed. Or at least alive. She kicked the door open and marched in, hands already dropping to her blades.

The three nobles whirled at the noise, one of them dropping Shianni to the ground. Seeing her torn dress and traumatised expression, Oraya felt the anger surge back through her body. Vaughan stepped forward. “My, my. What have we here?” The first words out of his mouth were said with a sneer. Of course they were. Oh, Oraya would enjoy this.

One of his lackeys stepped forward. “Don’t worry. We’ll make short work of these two.” They always thought elves were weak. She would prove these noble bastards wrong.

Vaughan turned on him. “Quiet, you idiot! They’re covered in enough blood to fill a tub! What do you think that means?” If she were calmer, she might almost be impressed with how he didn’t seem at all afraid.

“It means your guards are dead.” Her hands itched to plunge her weapons into his body. She moved into a combat pose, drawing her blades the tiniest amount. Enough to show her intent.

Vaughan’s eyes widened. He took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “All right, let’s not be too hasty here. Surely we can talk this over.” His last sentence sounded more like a question than a statement.

She blinked in surprise. Was he serious? She scoffed. “You really think you can talk your way out of this?” Typical privileged noble, thinking he could get away with anything he liked. She wouldn’t allow it.

Behind the nobles, Shianni let out a weak sob. “Please, just… get me out of here. I want to go home!” Oraya’s eyes flickered over to her briefly before refocusing on Vaughan. She didn’t trust him to not try anything if she was distracted. But she would get Shianni home.

“Think for a minute. Kill me, and you ruin more lives than just your own. By dawn, the city will run red with elven blood.” Her anger reached a crescendo. He dared to threaten the alienage? He stepped forward, hands still held out. “Think about it. You know how this ends. Or we could talk this through, now that you have my undivided attention.” He was afraid now, she could tell. He’d dropped the sneer, the condescending tone. And yet he honestly thought this would work.

She snarled, drawing her blades further. “How dare you threaten us!” The people she knew flashed through her mind. Valendrian, Alarith, Nessa. Her father. She would not let the humans hurt them.

“Last chance.” Irritation was seeping into Vaughan’s voice, as though he was dealing with a difficult child. “Kill me and destroy everything you care about,” his voice was slow, carefully laying out every word. Even when he was bargaining for his life, he managed to be patronising. Typical. “or hear me out and change your life for the better.”

Her lip curled in disdain. She prepared to leap into action when Soris’ voice came from behind her, nervous and halting. “But, Oraya, what if he’s right? They’ll purge the Alienage again!” Memories entered her mind, unbidden. Playing in the street, before suddenly being bundled inside. Her mother, face tight with worry and fear, asking her to hide. ‘Like the game we played the other day’. Hiding under the bed with her parents for hours. The mourning family members of those killed in the purge. She forced herself out of the thoughts, eyes focusing back on Vaughan.

She shook her head, slow and forceful. “You think they won’t as it is? After what we’ve done?” They had killed so many already. They had weapons now. Too dangerous to be left alive. And why not remove those malcontent elements while they were at it? No. It didn’t matter now. At least she could make sure Vaughan didn’t see it.

“If-if you’re sure…” Soris cleared his throat, and she heard him load his crossbow. “I’m with you.” She smiled at the confidence that had entered his voice. She knew he had it in him.

Vaughan spat on the ground between them, scurrying backwards to draw his own dagger. “Bah! I always regret talking to knife-ears! Now I’ll just gut your ignorant carcasses instead!”

Before the nobles could attack, Soris managed to fire his crossbow. The noble on the left fell with a cry. Oraya charged with a roar towards the other lackey. The man stumbled backwards and whimpered in fear. Pathetic. And these men thought they were better than elves? She cut him down and turned on Vaughan. His expression was one of anger and confusion in equal measure. Both faded into desperation as Oraya dashed towards him. He managed to deflect several of her strikes with his dagger as he stepped backwards. Just as she drove her sword through a gap in his guard, he slashed across her cheek. It only made her angrier. With a hoarse shout, she thrust both her weapons into his chest, driving him onto the floor with a thump. She tore her blades out of his body, resisting the urge to stab the corpse over and over again. He was dead. Shianni was safe. They were all safe. Now she would get them home.

* * *

Varlim looked around the alienage. He still found that an odd name for a place. The duster was looking at the large tree in the centre of the district with suspicion. He repressed a chuckle at the other dwarva’s continued anxiety on the surface. Instead, he turned to the man next to him. “Duncan, are you aiming to recruit that girl? It’s the only reason I can fathom for waiting around here for them to return.” An enigmatic smile was the only answer Varlim received for several seconds before Duncan finally spoke.

“Her mother was very talented, my lord Aeducan. If she trained her daughter, as I suspect she would have, she would make a valuable recruit to the order.”

Varlim considered it for a moment. “With a Blight on the way I certainly can’t fault you for that, considering how few Wardens there are in Ferelden. I hope she’s as well trained as you believe.”

Movement drew their eyes to one of the entrances to the alienage. Duncan’s smile grew. “I think we shall soon find out.” One of the elves Duncan supplied with weapons returned with several women. The absence of his companion was telling. The girl Duncan hoped to recruit was armed and armoured, Varlim noticed. She hadn’t been dragged out of the alienage like that. She certainly had fire, though. He could see that from where he was, simply from the way she held herself. She didn’t appear hurt in any way, other than a cut across her cheek. He was impressed. More experienced warriors walked away from battle with much worse. The other women left, but her eyes remained on them for as long as she could see them, even when she responded to whatever Duncan and the Elder were saying.

“Well, she looks like a handful.” Varlim jumped at the sudden voice from his side. He turned his head slightly to glare side-on at the duster.

“Yes. She does. Hopefully the kind of handful that will be good at killing darkspawn.” He folded his arms, shifting away from the other dwarva slightly.

The duster raised an eyebrow. “He’s going to recruit her then? Good. I could use some company. Other than a perpetually angry former-deep lord.”

Varlim looked away before that infuriating smirk formed. Sometimes it was incredibly taxing to resist the urge to strike him, and seeing that smirk would only make it more difficult. “I’m merely surprised you haven’t already robbed the district blind. Worried the elves will use their magic to make you float up into the sky?”

He felt rather than saw the other man flinch. He smothered his laugh before it could escape. “They can do that!?” the duster asked in a sharp whisper.

Varlim nodded, doing his best to keep a straight face and serious tone. “Oh yes, the Merchants Guild told many tales of cheating traders who were punished in such a way. Up and up they went, never to be seen again.”

Some hint of his amusement must have leaked out, because the duster moved into his line of sight, eyes searching his face. “…You bastard.” He turned away with a huff. “Last time I listen to you.”  
A grin finally cracked onto Varlim’s face as he walked away from the duster. “Oh, but I thought we were pals?” he taunted over his shoulder. His smile faded as he caught sight of several guards talking to Duncan and the three elves. _Seems like this recruitment might be more exciting than expected._

“The arl’s son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through the entire palace! I need names, and I need them now!” _Exciting indeed._

The girl stepped forward, staring the Captain down. “It was my doing.” Varlim’s eyebrow shot up, and he shared a look with Duncan. He hoped she had skill to back that bravery up.

The Captain merely frowned, looking her over. “You expect me to believe one woman did all of that?” Some of the guards behind him were openly glaring at the elves around them, hands near their sword hilts. Varlim hoped the Captain could keep them in line.

The Elder stepped forward, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We are not all so helpless, Captain.”

The Captain looked her over again, then glanced between her and the Elder. “You save many by coming forward. I don’t envy your fate, but I applaud your courage.” He stepped back, making room for his men to come forward. “This elf will wait in the dungeons until the arl returns.” He turned to the elves watching the event from what they considered a safe distance. “The rest of you, back to your houses!”

As the elves slipped away, Varlim shared another look with Duncan. The Warden stepped forward, clearing his throat politely. “Captain… a word, if you please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please, any feedback, comments, criticism, whatever, feel free to let me know.


	3. A Forest and A Final Recruitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in a forest, a cautionary tale against exploring old ruins, and a sad farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the fourth Warden enters the stage. Maybe soon the prologue will be finished and their proper adventures can begin.

To another, the forest might have seemed calm. To their ear, birdsong and a light breeze would have been all to break the quiet tranquillity of the morning. But Ilras knew little of such calm. The forest had an energy to it that crept under his skin, into his bones. The Veil was thin here, if not torn outright. How Merrill and the Keeper could stand it, he had no idea. He’d never observed any outward signs of discomfort or unease from them. And he’d certainly never seen either of them conversing with nice spirits, or fending off angry ones. He was supposed to be hunting with Tamlen, but he’d moved off over an hour ago by Ilras’ reckoning. Probably to make sure no humans were in the forest. Tamlen had issues with humans, which was strange, as the clan hadn’t had to flee from humans since Ilras’ father was killed. He shivered as he walked near some ruins. The Veil was very thin there. If he strained his senses and his magic, he could still detect the hints of spectral combat. Sounds reached his ears as though from within a deep cave, and if he squinted just right he could see flashes of movement through the Veil. Spirits clustered around the combatants, as they so often did. He shook his head to dispel the impressions, and moved away before any of those spirits caught wind of him. _The last thing I need right now is a demon hounding me._ Not that all spirits were liable to turn into demons. Many of them were perfectly civil company.

He softly hummed to himself as he moved through the forest. It was a song a spirit had taught him. They’d learned it from a mother, singing to her sleeping child only minutes before she learned her husband had been murdered. It was the mix of emotions that had drawn the spirit in. But it was the suffering of the mother that compelled the spirit to help. Ilras smiled at the thought. He couldn’t fathom how his people could just treat them all as dangerous animals. Most of them were terribly soft. A wisp drifted into his vision. Ilras’ smile grew and he let his magic reach out to greet the spirit. When the spirit’s energy resonated with him after a short while, his smile broke into a grin. _See? Not a dangerous animal at all. A thing of beauty._

A distant shout broke through his reverie. His head snapped to the side, senses already honing in on the noise. The spirit vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, its energy dispersing back into the Fade as Ilras took his bow in hand and moved towards the source of the shout. He darted through the forest, feet dancing across the ground by instinct as much as training. Whatever it was shouted again, quickly joined by another. It wasn’t an animal. That left few options, even fewer of which were palatable. Soon, he was close enough to hear that it was people making the noise. They’d stopped shouting now. Through the trees he could see three humans, one of whom was sprawled on the ground. Shifting to the side slightly, he saw who they were looking at. _Tamlen. Of course._ Ilras just hoped the man had fallen, and hadn’t been struck to the ground.

“And you three are somewhere you shouldn’t be.” Ilras sighed internally. Tamlen sounded far too angry to have simply stumbled across these humans.

“Let us pass, elf. You have no right to stop us!” Well, the human had guts. The wisdom in standing up to an angry Dalish hunter with an arrow pointed between your eyes was questionable though. Ilras moved from the treeline, entering the clearing. He nocked an arrow just in case. It was better to show a united front; the humans would be more liable to leave peacefully if they thought they were outmatched. They were, even without an arrow on his string, but Ilras wasn’t about to tell them that.

Tamlen’s eyes darted over to Ilras as he stepped forward. The shift in his focus was momentary and would have been imperceptible to the humans. “No? We will see about that, won’t we?” Ilras moved into place behind Tamlen, his arrow aimed more in the general direction of the humans than at any one of them in particular. “You’re just in time.” Tamlen spoke as Ilras stopped moving. “I found these… humans lurking in the bushes. Bandits, no doubt.” Ilras had to push down the urge to laugh openly. These humans, bandits? Their clothes were torn from rushing between trees, their chests heaving with the exertion of running from a Dalish hunter, their eyes wide and frantic as they were confronted by two bows drawn in their direction. They were clearly unarmed, afraid, and completely lost. Though it was almost impressive that they hadn’t been eaten by anything this deep in. Many creatures in the Brecilian Forest loved to consume the unprepared.

The shem at the front of the group gulped audibly. “We aren’t bandits, I swear! Please don’t hurt us!” The one to his left was clearly shaking. How in Mythal’s name did Tamlen think they were a threat?

“You shemlen are pathetic. It’s hard to believe you ever drove us from our homeland.” Now Ilras had to expend real effort on keeping his eyes from rolling. _Seriously, Tamlen? First they’re bandits, here to attack the clan, and now they’re weak and pathetic? This is exactly why the humans have outrageous stories about us._

Ilras allowed his attention to wander after that. The energy around the humans was far more interesting than what they were saying, Ilras couldn’t help it if that drew his eye. It was… wrong, in some way. Not like anything he’d seen before. As though they’d been in some dark place and some of that darkness had followed them out.

"What do you say, lethallan? What should we do with them?" Tamlen's question pulled Ilras away from the strange feeling. The humans were still clearly terrified. Ilras wasn't sure if the two of them warranted that much fear. Where had they been?

"Let them go." Ilras couldn't help it. The men were unarmed. No threat to anyone, except perhaps themselves if they stumbled across anything dangerous. "You judge humans too harshly." Tamlen always had. It was ridiculous really. It was Ilras' father who had been murdered, not Tamlen's.

The other hunter scoffed, arrow not wavering from its target. "You are too soft. How many injustices must our people suffer before you resent them properly?" Ilras couldn't restrain his eye-roll that time. He really did not want to get into this argument with Tamlen. Not again.

"L-look..." the human's voice cut between the brewing tension. "We didn't come here to be trouble. We just found a cave..." One of the other humans scrambled forward at that, throwing his own words into the mix.

"Yes, a cave! With ruins like I've never seen! We thought there might be, uh..." His enthusiasm dropped, and his words trailed off.

"Treasure." Tamlen sneered. "So you're more akin to thieves than actual bandits."

Ilras cut in before Tamlen could go off on another human-hating tangent. "If you've been there, you should have treasure to prove it."

The second human grabbed at his belt with one hand, the other still raised in a gesture of surrender. "I... I have proof!" After a moment, he pulled something from his belt. A strange stone. Perhaps part of a relief, or a piece of a tablet. Ilras couldn't tell from this distance. "Here... we found this just inside the entrance."

Tamlen shot a look over to Ilras, silently telling him to stay on guard. Ilras sighed internally. What did he think the humans would try to do? Tamlen stalked forward, bow dropping to his side as he grabbed the stone from the human. He looked at it after resuming his place beside Ilras, eyes scanning the stone. "This stone has carvings..." a sharp intake of breath soon followed. "Is this elvish?  _Written_ elvish?" Ilras blinked in surprise. If that were true, these ruins must be centuries old. Probably millennia, dating all the way back to the days of Arlathan. It would be an incredible find. He could just see Merrill's reaction now.

"There's more in the ruins!" The human who had given them the stone seemed to be gaining confidence now. He probably thought if he offered them these ruins, he would get out of the forest alive. "We didn't get very far in though." There it was. In his eyes, a flash of fear.

"Why not?" The Veil was flickering. Spirits seemed to press against it more insistently now. Whatever was causing that, it was something magical or demonic.

"There was a demon!" Well, that answered that. If these humans were right, it was a bad sign indeed. "It was huge, with black eyes! Thank the Maker we were able to out-run it!"

Tamlen scoffed, still not looking up from the stone. "A demon? Where is this cave?" How could he be so sceptical of a demonic presence? The forest was famous for being haunted with spirits.

"Just off to the west, I think. There's a cave in the rock face, and a huge hole just inside." That made some sort of sense. They'd been running from that direction, from what Ilras could tell.

"Well?" Tamlen's voice seemed more determined now. With a glance, Ilras could see that he'd finally looked up from the stone. "Do we trust them? Shall we let them go?"

Ilras sighed. At least he'd asked first, instead of just outright saying he was going to kill them. Maybe the stone was a good thing, for drawing his attention like that. "You've frightened them enough. They won't bother us."

Tamlen took a long moment to think it over, the humans still terrified before them. "Run along then, shems. And don't come back until we Dalish have moved on." Both Ilras and the humans let out a sigh of relief.

"Of course! Thank you! Thank you!" The gratitude was thrown over their shoulders as they fled. Luckily, they ran off in a direction that would eventually lead them out of the forest. The two hunters lowered their bows and returned their arrows to their quivers. Tamlen looked down at the stone again, briefly, before looking up at Ilras.

“Well, shall we see if there’s any truth to their story? These carvings make me curious.” There was an eager glint to his eye that Ilras didn't like. His hunting instincts and his magic were telling him that this was a bad idea.

“I’m not sure.” His eyes shifted and he chewed the inside of his cheek, considering how much to tell Tamlen. “I have a bad feeling about this ‘demon’.” In his experience, he’d found it smart to keep things related to his magic close to his chest. Many people would find it strange, or even dangerous, that he could sense disturbances in things like this.

Tamlen scoffed openly, and Ilras’ chest clenched just slightly. It always hurt when Tamlen doubted him. “Skittish shems say it’s a demon and you believe them? They probably woke up a bear.” He shook his head, evidently dismissing Ilras’ misgivings. “Let’s see if these ruins actually exist. Then we’ll worry about what to do.”

The gleam in his eye was still there. The hairs on the back of Ilras’ neck rose. He really, really didn’t like this. But he couldn’t just let Tamlen go alone. As the other hunter moved off to the west, Ilras whispered a quick prayer to the Creators that it was just a bear. Or if it was a demon, just a shade. He doubted it would be a friendly spirit. The energy had felt too dark to allow a spirit to go uncorrupted for long. He definitely needed to give Tamlen a good talking to after this, no matter what was in the cave.

* * *

 Lotan cursed as he tripped over an exposed root – again. He scowled at the offending tree before moving on. It was ridiculous; he was supposed to be nimble. With the number of times he'd had to dart into windows and between shadows he should absolutely be able to walk along a forest path without almost falling on his face every ten minutes. At least Duncan had sent most of the other Wardens ahead to Ostagar, instead of taking them all along with them on this blighted trip into the forest. His mood soured further as he saw how nobody else was having the same problem. Duncan and the noble sod were discussing something, and Alistair was still doing his best to make the new recruit laugh with his jokes. The shine in his eyes whenever he succeeded was telling. Lotan filed it away. _You never know when good teasing material will come in handy_.

His thoughts were interrupted when he walked into what felt like a nest of thin branches. “Blast it all!” He swiped his arms through the air, thrashing the branches out of the way. “Sodding branches. Sodding trees. Sodding surface.” He glared around at the trees, and beyond them, at the sky. He continued mumbling to himself. “Don’t even understand why we’re in this blasted forest. He’s already got three recruits, why is he looking for another one? Sodding Wardens.”

His grumbling was interrupted by everyone else coming to a halt ahead of him. Duncan was speaking to the group. Lotan figured he should listen, even if it wasn't good news so he moved forward until he was within proper earshot.  _Mind you, the only good news I could hear in this sodding place was that we were leaving._  “Something in this forest has just released a large amount of darkspawn corruption. Whatever it is, it is surely dangerous. Be on your guard, for it will attract any tainted creatures in the area.” The older man paused and turned around, as though searching for something – yet his eyes were closed. Lotan shook his head. _Sodding Wardens_. He shifted his hands down to his daggers anyway. He might be in a foul mood, but he wasn’t going to ignore a Warden telling him corrupted beasts were nearby. He noticed everyone else reached for their weapons as well. It seemed he wasn’t the only one taking the warning to heart.

“This way. It isn’t far.” Duncan barely waited for any of them to acknowledge his words before he marched ahead. Lotan cursed inwardly and hoped he didn’t trip over anything else. They walked quickly for several minutes in a tense silence. The imminent threat of tainted creatures – and, if they were being honest, darkspawn – tended to kill light conversation.

They emerged into a clearing that was surrounded by scattered ruins. Come to think of it, he’d noticed odd ruins in the distance throughout the forest. He glared at the trees once more. _Why anyone would want to live amongst a blasted tree infestation is beyond me_. His attention was drawn away from the treeline when Duncan rushed forward, crouching next to a prone form in the middle of the clearing. Lotan hung back behind the rest of them, but approached enough to catch the end of what Duncan was saying.

“…hear me?” Duncan seemed to examine the… was it a man? He couldn’t tell behind the strange tattoos and odd clothing. The pointed ears told him they were an elf though. “I am… very sorry.” From Duncan’s tone, whatever he had found was far from ideal. His eyes were drawn beyond Duncan to the cave on the far side of the clearing. Something about it felt… off. He didn’t know if it was his Stone sense, or something else, but his instincts were telling him that the cave was definitely bad news. His eyes flicked back to Duncan as the Warden stood, the elf slung over his shoulder. “I must take this man back to his camp. He is tainted, and I must speak with his Keeper about holding the corruption in check for now. Alistair,” the other Warden jumped at being addressed, “I want you to stay here with the recruits and keep a watch on that cave. Whatever released the taint is inside.”

Alistair nodded in that fervent way of his. If the situation weren’t so tense Lotan would have smirked. “Yes, Duncan, will do.”

Without another word Duncan strode away along another forest path. Lotan had no idea how he knew it was the right one, but he hadn’t led them wrong so far so he presumed the older man wouldn’t get lost. He walked closer to the cave, finding a rock that was relatively comfortable to sit on. The cave felt wrong, but he still felt far more comfortable near the Stone than he would under any of the trees. As Varlim and Alistair seemed to discuss the watch roster, Lotan settled in. He hoped they wouldn’t be here long.

* * *

Ilras clutched at his mother’s necklace as another surge of pain made its way through his body. His magic pushed against the illness within him, trying to heal that which it had no hold over. He shrugged off Merrill and Fenarel’s concern. He was fine. He would be fine. Just as Tamlen was fine. Ilras would find him, and chastise him for letting his curiosity get the better of him. He retrieved his arrows from the few darkspawn scattered around them and looked up, towards the cave. He could still feel… something inside it calling to him. Not a voice, like the demons who visited him in his sleep and harassed him during the day, or the spirits who he held conversation with sometimes, but more of a… feeling. An urge. He loathed it, whatever it was. It was the same darkness that was around the humans. Only much, much stronger.

Merrill’s voice pulled his attention away from the cave. “I wonder whose camp this is.” She looked up at him. “Do you remember it being here?” He searched his memory. The shems he and Tamlen chased off had come from the south west, and had no camp in any case.

He shook his head. “No, this wasn’t here. It’s fresh.” It also looked too large to belong to just one human. Several areas around the campfire were depressed, as though multiple people had been sitting or lying down beside it. His focus moved to the forest around them. His eyes flicked along the treeline, searching for any creatures approaching. But there was nothing. His brow furrowed. He couldn’t even hear the birds in the trees, or movement of small animals amongst the undergrowth. Even the spirits were quiet.

He looked over at Merrill just as she perked up. “Wait… do you hear that?” Her eyes scanned the forest, much as Ilras had just finished doing.

He nodded. “No forest creatures. It’s too quiet.” No matter what the hour, he could always find the sounds of nature if he listened closely enough. But now, there was nothing. Just their breathing and the light breeze through the trees. It was unnatural. There was no other word for it.

“Exactly. The forest is too… still. Something’s in the air… something unnatural.” Merrill took the staff off her back as Ilras nocked an arrow to his bowstring. By the look of confusion on Fenarel’s face, Ilras gathered that it was not entirely physical. Clearly there was something more here, something he and Merrill could both feel more than Fenarel could.

“Careful, I don’t like this.” The warning was almost certainly unnecessary. The feeling of… wrong was stronger now. As though it were growing.

“It seems whatever you woke up inside that cave has spread outside.” He hoped curiosity would not get the better of Merrill as well. He knew how much she loved to explore any hint of their history. Whatever was in that cave, it might be better to destroy it. “The sooner we enter the cave and find Tamlen, the sooner we can leave.” On that they were in complete agreement. Ilras nodded and moved forward, attempting to remain cautious in his approach despite the pull he still felt.

After another hurried conversation with Merrill inside the ruins, they were searching for Tamlen. The skirmishes they had to fight certainly gave Ilras an idea of why the darkspawn were such a threat. He could scarcely imagine an entire horde of the foul creatures, and yet, that was precisely what had threatened the world four times now. He repressed a shudder, instead pulling his arrows out of another small group of the beasts. They were close to the mirror chamber now. He could see kills that were not their own. Beyond them, he saw a group of people who were standing around the entrance to the chamber. Two dwarves, a human, and an elf. Creators, it was like the start to a bad joke. The kind that Tamlen would tell after a good hunt, eyes shining and-. He shut his eyes harshly to dispel the memories. Thinking about Tamlen made the dark pull worse. He didn't want to think about what that meant.

One of the dwarves looked up from the dagger he was idly twirling as they approached. “Well, would you look at that. The elf isn’t dead. And here Duncan was saying he probably wouldn’t recover.” He smiled, and then chuckled at something. Ilras didn’t particularly want to know what he was finding funny about the situation.

The other dwarf sighed, giving the speaker a look before stepping towards Ilras’ group. “Atrast vala. Duncan is examining the mirror, if you were looking for him.” His eyes swept over Ilras, and his lips thinned into a grimace. “Yes, speaking to Duncan would be best.” He stepped to the side, indicating for them to move into the chamber beyond. Ilras was more confused than anything else. If they were with the human, then surely they were Wardens. Yet only one of them wore the insignia. Odd. Dismissing his thoughts, Ilras nodded in thanks before moving to enter the chamber. As they passed the group, the second dwarf spoke again. “And well done on killing those darkspawn. Not everyone has the stomach for it.” There was a look in his eyes, something calculating, though it was tinged with... approval? Respect? Ilras didn't know, but the look still made him vaguely uncomfortable.

Ilras nodded again before stepping into the chamber, Merrill and Fenarel moments behind him. Hopefully the human or his companions had found some trace of Tamlen. Or failing that, knew what the sickness inside him was. Then he could be cured, and go back to life with his clan. Everything would be fine. He'd definitely yell at Tamlen though. No matter what he'd been through.

* * *

The Keeper's eyes were sad. Ilras knew her face was the same, but something about the eyes was slightly easier to focus on. She'd just finished discussing matters with Duncan in hushed tones. Given the furtive glances they had been throwing towards him, he figured it was something to do with his... infection. He shuddered at the mere thought of it. Though the foul mirror had been destroyed, the damage had been done. Duncan said it was a testament to his willpower that he was even alive, let alone capable of fighting as he had done during his return to the cave. The city elf had muttered something about a maker's blessing. He didn't know what that was about. Maybe the spirits would know. They surely would have had vast experience with city elves and humans. And dwarves, for that matter. He'd heard even less about them than he had about humans.

 "Your keeper and I have spoken, and we've come to an arrangement that concerns you." Ilras jumped at the Warden's voice. Elgar'nan, how had he crept up on him like that? Humans were never that quiet. Through the soft buzzing of his mind, Ilras heard the Warden continuing to talk. "My order is in need of help. You are in need of a cure. When I leave, I hope you will join me. You would make an excellent Grey Warden."

Ilras blinked. He supposed he should feel honoured, to be complimented like that. But all he felt was confusion. His brow furrowed as he looked at the older man. "What does this have to do with my cure?"

He caught the faint thinning of the Warden's lips. "Everything, I'm afraid. The darkspawn taint courses through your veins. That you recovered at all is remarkable." He'd mentioned that before. But... the taint? The darkspawn corruption. It was inside  _him_. Fen'Harel's teeth, that definitely wasn't good. Still the Warden talked. What was his name? The Keeper had mentioned it. Douglas? Duncan. That was it. Human names were strange. Ilras blinked slowly. He was still talking. "...and kill you, or worse. The Grey Wardens can prevent that, but it means joining us."

After that it was all a bit of a blur. He remembered agreeing eventually, and the Keeper closing his hand around a ring. It was one of the Keeper's rings. His father had worn it. He remembered Tamlen's funeral, the tears in Merrill's eyes, the sympathy and grief of the whole clan. But he wouldn't remember his parting words with any of his clan. Most of his memory would be centred on the taint inside him, making its way through his body. If he thought about it, it felt like it was stinging the inside of his veins. He didn't think about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please, any feedback, comments, criticism, whatever, feel free to let me know.


	4. A King And Two Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens are informed of the Joining and set out to find darkspawn blood, and some valuable artifacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'd hoped to do Ostagar all in one go, but this section alone is over 6000 words so I thought I'd break it up. Hope you don't mind.

The newest recruit was starting to concern Varlim. Though his movements were graceful, his eyes were unfocused and dull. The only times he seemed to react to anything were when he gave tiny start, as though he’d been stung by something. It was not an entirely inaccurate comparison. If he looked closely, Varlim could see the faintest hints of blackening to the elf’s veins. A quick glance at Duncan told him that he was not the only one to notice it. At least they were close to Ostagar, the dense forest having finally given way to the rolling farmland of the Hinterlands. Hopefully after being cured the elf would snap out of it. Wardens have a job to do, after all, and Varlim would not tolerate unfocused soldiers. Not against darkspawn. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. _She’s watching me again._ If he turned, Varlim knew he would make eye contact with the other elf. It had become a habit of hers since leaving the city. He prided himself on being a patient man – Ancestors knew dealing with Trian had always required it – but even he could only take so much. He turned, forcing a mask of indifference over his features.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

She came to a halt several paces away. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother a lord such as yourself.” Her voice held a lot of venom for one of her age. Varlim was almost impressed. Almost.

He repressed a sigh. Hopefully this could be dealt with swiftly. “If your problem with me is related to my caste, then I can assure you that I am no longer a noble, just as you are no longer part of your Alienage.” By the look on her face, she still wasn’t convinced to drop the hostility. Great. He switched tactics. Hopefully their mission would persuade her. “We are called to a higher service now. We don’t have to be friends. We don’t have to like each other. But, at least for now, we have to work together.” Her scowl seemed to be lessening in intensity. That was a good sign. Diplomatic successes were always satisfying. Varlim cultivated his tone carefully. He needed the right mix of righteous anger and empathy here.

“Or are you forgetting that it is your country this Blight is threatening to devastate, your own people who will die in their thousands if it’s not stopped?” Varlim turned and started walking. “Wardens have only one concern, girl. All other grudges and past grievances are secondary to that. After we kill the Archdemon, we can have a talk about your problem with nobility. If we survive that long.” He knew walking away like that would probably fuel her resentment, but he’d said his piece. Anything else was up to her. It was hardly his job to babysit children who would rather rail against the world than work to save it. They would get to Ostagar and crush the darkspawn. Then he could start planning his revenge. _Bhelen will pay. I swear it by the Ancestors, he will suffer for what he did to me._

* * *

 

Oraya hated her boots. She hated how they looked, how they felt, what they were doing to her feet. She hated the terrible weather, the dismal scenery, the jumpiness of the Wardens as they got closer to Ostagar. She hated basically everything about her situation. She knew it was better than being executed, but that didn’t mitigate her anger. The only bright spot – if she had to come up with one – was Alistair, with his dumb jokes and earnest nature. At least he wasn’t a noble bastard who pretended to know better about anything and everything. Hopefully after this battle she would be separated from that dwarven prat. Maybe he could be stationed on the opposite side of Ferelden. Or even across the ocean, or the mountains, in a different country. That would be nice.

Speaking of the dwarf, he seemed to be fielding the king’s questions with barely concealed irritation. “Leaving Orzammar wasn’t my idea, really.” She could practically feel his teeth grinding against each other. He’d had similar reactions whenever anyone had asked about what got him exiled. At least he hadn’t threatened to behead the king, like he growled at the other dwarf one night in camp.

Oraya hated her boots. She hated how they looked, how they felt, what they were doing to her feet. She hated the terrible weather, the dismal scenery, the jumpiness of the Wardens as they got closer to Ostagar. She hated basically everything about her situation. She knew it was better than being executed, but that didn’t mitigate her anger. The only bright spot – if she had to come up with one – was Alistair, with his dumb jokes and earnest nature. At least he wasn’t a noble bastard who pretended to know better about anything and everything. Hopefully after this battle she would be separated from that dwarven prat. Maybe he could be stationed on the opposite side of Ferelden. Or even across the ocean, or the mountains, in a different country. That would be nice.

Speaking of the dwarf, he seemed to be fielding the king’s questions with barely concealed irritation. “Leaving Orzammar wasn’t my idea, really.” She could practically feel his teeth grinding against each other. He’d had similar reactions whenever anyone had asked about what got him exiled. At least he hadn’t threatened to behead the king, like he growled at the other dwarf one night in camp.

“Sounds like there’s a story behind that. You must regale me with it sometime.” _Maker’s breath, does that man not understand what tone means?_ Even she wouldn’t want to press that topic based on the dwarf’s tone, and she could barely stand him. “If your Majesty wishes.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other dwarf looking at the scene with slight disbelief. Well, at least she wasn’t alone in recognising how absurd this was.

“I do. I’ll make sure to have the finest dwarven brew brought up from the palace cellars… after we’ve dealt with the Blight, of course.” She had no idea how he was taking this so well. If someone were speaking this casually in relation to her recruitment, she’d be sorely tempted to hit them. But there he was, forcing himself to remain civil. The king continued, still oblivious to the tense stance of the dwarf in front of him. “I’ve been to Orzammar. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving, long ago. How does Endrin fare these days?” The prat’s fists clenched behind his back as soon as the dwarven king’s name was uttered. The other one winced almost imperceptibly. _That was… interesting._

“I’m his son.” he seemed to be forcing the words from behind gritted teeth. Oraya blinked in surprise. He was what? A king’s son? So he was not just a noble, but a prince? That was just great. What in Andraste’s name did he do to get exiled? Nobles, let alone royalty, were never punished that severely for… well, for anything. “And he was fine when I saw him last.”

Something in his voice must have finally broken through Cailan’s blind ignorance, as the king’s eyes widened slightly. “Well… it seems your story may be even more interesting than I suspected.” Or maybe it hadn’t gotten through after all. He clapped his gauntlets together, the resulting noise making the rest of them jump. For the first time, Cailan shifted his focus to all four of them. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.” Oraya ducked into a nervous bow. The king was speaking to her, what else was she supposed to do? In her peripheral vision she saw the other roll his eyes and scoff. That seemed typical of him. The Dalish elf, on the other hand, simply fidgeted nervously under the attention. Oraya still didn’t know his name. He’d barely spoken a word since leaving his clan.

Her attention was dragged back to the king by the noble – no, royal – dwarf speaking again. “You’re too kind, your Majesty.” His voice was calmer now. She was momentarily impressed that he’d pulled himself together so quickly, until a glance at his still clenched fists dispelled that. Besides, she wasn’t going to be swayed by his talent at manipulating his tone.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.” He was fighting a battle here for the future of Ferelden, facing down a Blight if Duncan was to be believed, and he found discussion of strategy boring? If Oraya hadn’t believed the stories of his childish nature before, she certainly believed them now.

Duncan, perhaps sensing the tension building amongst his recruits, stepped forward to draw the king’s attention. “Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week.” Well, that explained the raven he’d received in Lothering.

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different.” Was he… serious? Looking around, Oraya could tell she wasn’t alone in her disbelief. The royal prat’s fists were practically shaking with how fiercely he had them clenched. Only the Dalish elf seemed to have no negative reaction. Thinking about it, she should really learn their names. If they end up being kept together after the battle, that is.

“I didn’t realise things were going so well.” At least the prince was managing to remain diplomatic. Oraya had absolutely no idea how.

Cailan waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

“Disappointed, your Majesty?” Duncan seemed to be not even remotely exasperated with the king. Oraya had to stop herself from shaking her head in disbelief. This was her king, after all, no matter what seemingly idiotic things came out of his mouth.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do.” She thought the king was supposed to be different. In this battle, Maker only knew how many people would die. But here he was, casually indifferent to all that. “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!” With far too cheery a wave, Cailan turned on his heel and seemed to be almost jaunty in his step.

Duncan turned to them, concern now clearly etched on his features. “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn here.” Maybe she’d given him too little credit. If anyone were to take the darkspawn seriously, it would be the Wardens.

“Perhaps… this isn’t really a Blight after all?” The unexpected voice of the Dalish elf caused her to jump. It was the first time he’d said anything more than a quiet ‘thank you’ ever since they’d recruited him. It was strange. For some reason she’d expected his voice to be… deeper. More mature. Maybe it was his height that had misled her. Somewhere beside her, she heard the prince scoff derisively. Good to know he was being kind to others.

“So some believe, but I disagree.” Again, Duncan was stern but not unkind. As much as she didn’t want a Blight anywhere near Ferelden, she knew she should believe Duncan. The man was the leader of the Wardens for the whole kingdom, he must have that position for a reason. “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us.” He sounded… worried. It was a sensible approach, she supposed. But not exactly one that left her reassured about their chances. “I know there is an archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

She swore she heard the other dwarf mumble something that sounded suspiciously like “You could if he were not such a fool.”

Duncan overheard. He did not look pleased. Before he could reproach the dwarf, the prince cut in. “Then we should move quickly.”

With a last look, Duncan turned away from the other dwarf. “Yes. We should proceed with the ritual.”

She couldn’t help herself. “A hot meal might be nice, first.” And a bath. And new boots. New armour overall, really. It chafed.

Duncan laughed, the chuckle lighting up his normally stoic expression. “I agree. We have until nightfall to begin the ritual.” She still didn’t understand. What ritual? He must have gleaned some of her confusion from her expression, because he continued. “Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden.” He turned towards the Dalish elf, who was rubbing at his arm as though in pain. He probably was. The taint couldn’t be fun. “The Joining is what will cure you of the suffering your tainted blood surely brings you. If it had been possible, I would have done it before now.”

The elf’s brow furrowed, more in confusion than irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me about this cure before?” It was a fair enough question. Nobody wanted to be tainted any longer than was necessary. Or at all, really.

“It is a secret. And it is not a simple antidote. The Joining is what will make you – all of you – Grey Wardens.”

Call her paranoid, but Oraya was not a fan of things being kept from her. She raised her head, looking straight at Duncan. “Why is this ritual so secret?”

Duncan hesitated, as though he were debating what to tell them, before finally speaking after a few moments. “The Joining is dangerous. I cannot speak more of it except to say that you will learn all in good time. Until then, you must trust that what is done is necessary.” Great. So joining the Wardens not only tore you away from your home and family, it was apparently dangerous too, even before you started fighting darkspawn. That was just fantastic.

“Wonderful.” It seemed she wasn’t alone. The other dwarf pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against and stepped towards Duncan. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Duncan smiled. His gratitude that the four of them were cooperating was clear. “Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish.” His hand swept to indicate the tents and groups of people on the other side of the bridge. “All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being.” That worked for Oraya. She was hardly champing at the bit to traipse around the Wilds for no reason. “Alistair is also in the camp.” She perked up at that. So that’s where he’d gone. Hopefully he’d be more fun than this group was proving to be. “When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits.” Oh great, more news being sprung on her at the last minute. So it wasn’t just the four of them, she had to deal with more. They were probably humans, knowing her luck. Duncan continued talking, either not noticing the souring of her mood, or tactfully ignoring it. “Until then, I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to.” With a last nod, he turned away from them and walked across the bridge, leaving the four of them standing on their own in the rough semicircle they’d ended up in.

Even that soon broke up. The other dwarf stalked off with a glint in his eye that had the noble grimacing. The Dalish elf wandered away with a strange look on his face, as though he weren’t all together there. Following him with her eyes, she saw him heading in the direction of what looked to be mages. By the time she stopped looking at the elf, the royal prat had stormed off in the direction of an important looking tent. Probably off to demand better treatment or some such nonsense. Stupid royals.

* * *

 

“Pray that our king proves amenable to wisdom, if you’re the praying sort.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then simply pray.”

Loghain’s parting words remained prominent in Varlim’s mind. The entire situation was far from ideal. The annals of history were filled with kings who thought themselves great warriors, only to be torn down by their opponents. Pride, cockiness, arrogance, call it what you will. Cailan was not suited to lead this, or any army into battle against a darkspawn horde. Especially not one that may have an archdemon leading it. The Memories had recorded the signs of the growing horde years ago, all the way back to the loss of Bownammar. Varlim had read reports from the Legion. Stones, he’d even helped his father draft a letter to Maric about the increasing darkspawn presence in the Deep Roads beneath Ferelden. And as for Loghain… well, one only had to glance at the records of the Blights to see that, every time, the Wardens are the ones who turned the tide and killed the Archdemon. To claim they were unnecessary was foolish at best, and maliciously ignorant at worst.

Varlim took a deep breath. There was no point in getting caught up in his head. He’d spoken to the commander of the army, as he’d planned. Now he had to round up the other recruits so they could go through with this… Joining. The Wardens kept their secrets close, even from Orzammar. Varlim would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Looking over at Duncan, he blinked. There was a knight gesticulating angrily at the Warden, hand gesturing between Duncan and… the duster, leaning against a pillar, looking smug as ever. Varlim’s fist clenched. What had that sodding idiot done now?

“I’m certain there is another explanation.”

Varlim scoffed at the Warden’s words. Duncan had to try being diplomatic, but it was blatantly obvious what the duster had been up to.

The knight echoed his sentiment. “No, there’s not. My man caught him with his hand in his pocket.” Varlim’s lips twitched upwards. _So the idiot hasn’t even been successful in his attempts at thievery. He’s been caught red-handed. Oh, that’s rich._

“Careful. You are talking about a Grey Warden.” Wait. Duncan was defending the casteless sod? “I would trust his word over your man.” He was. Varlim would have gaped openly if he didn’t have stricter control than that. “In any event, I vouch for the good conduct of all the Wardens here. Are we clear?” Paragon’s blood, the Wardens were supposed to be creating goodwill in Ferelden, not dirtying their reputation wherever they could. This… this was absurd. Varlim knew that underhanded skills were required in certain arenas of life – you couldn’t survive in Orzammar politics, let alone thrive without realising that – but this wasn’t the machinations of the Assembly. This was the Wardens they were talking about.

Varlim realised that at some point during his introspection the knight had stormed off, leaving the duster and Duncan talking in quieter tones. He moved closer. Not to eavesdrop, of course. He just didn’t trust the duster.

“You are a worthy and skilled recruit, and I know of your talent with sleight of hand.” Ah. So the pockets that had been picked had not gone unnoticed by Duncan. Varlim’s new – and illegitimately bought – armour seemed to weigh more on his frame. What could he say? He’d needed the gear, and the duster paid well for his silence. Duncan continued speaking to the duster, either not noticing Varlim moving closer, or not caring. “That is a good thing. Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their missions.”

Well, that much was true. Varlim knew the Wardens’ relative acceptance of blood magic ruffled many feathers amongst the surface realms. But of what value could thievery be in the fight against the darkspawn? “But the law is very hard on thieves. Ferelden still bears mistrust towards our order, so practise these skills with caution.” So Duncan understood how perilous their position was, and yet he still defended the duster. Varlim could scarcely believe it. “Your standing as a Warden will not always help you.” _I suppose a warning is better than no reprimand at all._

“But I need to practise to get better.” Or maybe not. How was the duster still so insufferably smug? Varlim would put good coin on him having that damned smirk plastered across his face.

“Certainly. Just don’t get caught.” Varlim’s eye twitched. He knew that sometimes vices had to be forgiven among the ranks, but that was typically gambling or drink, not theft. The Wardens certainly had different attitudes than he was expecting.

Varlim kept his distance. He didn’t want to risk losing his temper with the duster. Years of dealing with the Assembly, simpering nobles and merchants, brown-nosers, would-be assassins, and this… insolent duster managed to worm his way beneath all Varlim’s defences and rile him up. It really, really irked him. Before long, the two elves returned with Alistair and two other humans in tow. One looked a shifty type, and was almost leering at the girl they recruited in Denerim. The other held himself with military bearing and yet seemed as though he were expecting darkspawn to leap out from behind every corner. Their eclectic group just got larger. Fantastic. Hopefully they got to kill some darkspawn before too long. Varlim was itching for a good fight.

* * *

 

“Enough of this sodding nonsense.” The steel in Varlim’s voice was palpable. Lotan almost shivered. At least it wasn’t directed at him. Though, by the same token, it wasn’t as fun when others annoyed the prince. “You’ve dragged us around this thrice-damned swamp killing demons and picking flowers. Caridin’s beard, you dug up a box on the incredibly thin chance that you just happen to pass through Redcliffe so you can deliver it!” This was pure gold. The noble sod was finally yelling at someone. Lotan was both thrilled that it was happening at all, and strangely disappointed that he wasn’t the one to pull that reaction out of him.

To be fair to the others, the girl was returning his anger with ease. Her glare looked as though it could melt stone. The Dalish elf wasn’t looking happy with being yelled at either, but the girl was more likely to openly disagree. “Being Wardens doesn’t mean we have to be solely focused on the darkspawn every hour of every day.” Disagreeing like that. Her voice was just as harsh as her glare. “It’s entirely possible to be a good person and fight the Blight at the same time.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course that’s possible, but if you’d forgotten, the entire army is on the eve of a pitched battle with the horde.” The prince’s voice had dropped in volume again, but was no less intense for it. “And if your little diversions throw off any plans, I’ll make sure you are held responsible. We have the blood that we need – no thanks to you – and now we just need to walk up that hill,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of some ruins a fair distance away. Lotan suppressed a shudder. It wasn’t a very tall hill, but still… it was closer to the sky than where he was currently standing. Though, considering the… heated discussion, Lotan was surprised no darkspawn had crept closer. “And get the damn treaties. Then we can go back to camp and you can tend to the wounded, or give flowers to the soldiers, or whatever blighted sod else you want to do.”

Without another word, he stormed off up the hill, pulling the greatsword from his back. If Lotan didn’t know better, he just might feel sorry for the darkspawn. As it was, he grinned and unsheathed his daggers.

He turned his head over his shoulder as he moved after the prince. “Well, don’t let us have all the fun. Feel free to join us at any point.”

As he crept away, he swore he heard Alistair say “Maker’s beard but those two can be terrifying.”

After a brief skirmish that Lotan could only describe as fun – unlike the marks Beraht had set him on, killing darkspawn was guilt-free and thus far easier to enjoy – their strange group found themselves staring down at the shattered remains of the Wardens’ cache. _Sodding perfect._ Everyone else seemed to reflect this sentiment. Even the Dalish elf looked annoyed, something Lotan had thought beyond him. Maybe there was something hidden beneath it? Though it was highly unlikely paper would have survived stored like this, it was worth a look. Lotan crouched down and sifted through the debris. _Nothing. Sodding. Perfect._

He was about to stand when a voice cut through the air. “Well, well, what have we here?” Almost as one, the group spun to face the source. It was a woman, practically looming over them from the ramp she was slowly making her way down. The looming was impressive, considering her physical size. Her clothes were highly unsuitable for the environment though; it was far too cold to be showing that much skin. Lotan wondered how she coped, unless… ah. The staff on her back. Magic, then. Could his day get any worse?

“Are you a vulture, I wonder?” The woman continued. He supposed she looked alright, if one were into that sort of thing. Not that he’d say anything. A witch was not high on his list of people to annoy. “A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned?” Her words were slow, and elegant despite her wild nature. Oh, she was put together well enough, and her voice hinted at culture, but a witch alone in the Wilds? There was no way she was some sophisticated lady.

“Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?” Her voice and gaze were cold as the air around them. Lotan’s instincts were far from comfortable with her. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Predictably, Varlim stepped forward to answer her. Did that sod think he was their leader? When was that conversation had? “We are neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this tower.” His voice was firm, but not harsh. At least he was controlling his anger. If he was even still angry at all. At times he was infuriatingly hard to read.

“’Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse.” Her hand swept to indicate the crumbled masonry, the plants pushing through cracks in the tiled ground. “I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go,’ I wondered, ‘why are they here?” She moved past them, smooth in her movements, but with an undeniable power. “And now you disturb ashes none have disturbed for so long.” She turned to face them, now situated on a small rise. “Why is that?”

It was Alistair who spoke up next. “Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.” He looked to be positively itching to grab his sword. Hopefully he could restrain himself.

The woman merely arched an eyebrow. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” The disdain and sarcasm were positively dripping from her tone and posture.

“Yes, swooping is bad.” That was his response? Seriously?

The thief Duncan had saddled them with pushed his voice into the conversation. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into toads!” Lotan scoffed, but then paused to consider. Could she do that? Could magic actually force another to change their shape? He shivered the tiniest amount. _Sodding magic._

“Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” For some members of this group, Lotan honestly had no idea. Her gaze drifted back to the prince after looking over the entire group. Lotan was pleased that he didn’t give any signs of discomfort. “You there, dwarf.” She directed to Varlim. “You have nothing to fear from any witch.” Wait, what? So the sod had been riling him up for weeks with tales of curses Lotan could be struck down with? Sodding prince. “Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilised.”

“I am Varlim. A pleasure to meet you.” The prince’s response sounded strangely genuine. He even managed a small bow in her direction. It was more of a dip of the head than anything, but it was still a bow.

The witch seemed impressed. “Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan.” Morrigan folded her arms. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?” So she knew something, then. Good. Maybe she could lead them to the treaties, so they could leave this swamp. Loathe as he was to admit, Lotan agreed with Varlim about being dragged around it. He just wanted a warm fire and a stiff drink.

“’Here no longer?’ You stole them, didn’t you?” Indignation laced Alistair’s words. “You’re… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!” Lotan tried not to groan. He really did. But that was just abysmal.

“How very eloquent.” Morrigan’s voice was cold again. It seemed the brewing dislike was mutual. “How does one steal from dead men?” Well, that depended on how well guarded their tomb and estate were. Often it was simple.

“Quite easily, it seems.” Lotan doubted Alistair meant the same thing. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.” The boy really was angry. Lotan couldn’t remember ever seeing him angry. It was a day for firsts, it seemed.

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them.” She was toying with Alistair, at least. Lotan had no objections. Needling people was his favourite pastime, after all. “Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.”

There was an obvious loophole in what she said, Lotan noticed. Despite his better judgement, he found himself opening his mouth. “Then who removed them?”

Her eyes moved over to him. Was that a flicker of approval in them? Surely not. “’Twas my mother, in fact.” Her mother? Interesting.

It was Varlim who replied. “Can you take us to her?” Surely it must hurt a former prince to be so polite to a witch living in a swamp.

A glimmer of a smile showed at Morrigan’s lips. “A sensible request. I like you.” Well that sounded like a double-edged sword.

“I’d be careful.” Alistair reflected Lotan’s thoughts. “First it’s, ‘I like you…’ but then ‘Zap!’ Frog time.” And he ruined it. At least Lotan repressed the groan that time.

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch.” First Alistair and now the thief. Were half this group total idiots? Lotan would admit – to himself if no one else – that he was no fan of magic, but to just assume the worst of Morrigan, that she was a wicked cannibal? If nothing else, it was likely to antagonise her.

For the first time in the conversation, the knight spoke. “If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change.” Now _that_ Lotan could get behind. Orzammar never got cold. That was the good thing about a city built over lava flows.

“Follow me then, if it pleases you.”

* * *

 

Ilras didn’t know what to make of any of this. Not only was the darkspawn horde agitating the spirits, but the closer they got to wherever Morrigan was leading them, the more a feeling of strangeness fell upon him. Not a wrong feeling, like a demon or the darkspawn corruption, just something… off. Strange. Different. They were approaching a hut now, an old, rickety structure. An old woman stood in front of it. At least, she appeared to be an old woman. Everything else was sending conflicting messages to Ilras. She was the source of the strange feeling. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the spirits were silent.

“Greetings, Mother. I bring before you Grey Wardens who-”

 “I see them, girl.” The woman cut Morrigan off just as she reached her side. “Mmm. Not quite what I expected.” Her voice dropped low. “Four instead of one. What changed, I wonder? This was not how it was supposed to be.” Ilras got the feeling that he was the only one who heard that part. He felt more uneasy by the moment.

“Are we supposed to believe that you were expecting us?” Alistair was still in a sour mood, as he had been ever since Morrigan had first appeared. Ilras hoped he didn’t annoy either of the women. He could tell they were powerful.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide… either way, one’s a fool!” The woman’s words were designed to confuse, to drive a mind in circles as they attempted to follow along. That was far more worrying than if she were simply mad.

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth was trying to be quiet. At least, Ilras thought he was. Surely a thief could be more subtle? The entire point of thievery was to be quiet, or so he was led to believe at least. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Jory shot back, equally trying and failing to be quiet. “Quiet, Daveth! If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?” His eyes darted between the thief and the women. Ilras couldn’t call them witches, even in his mind. It was so… narrow, compared to what they were. At least, compared to what it seemed that they were.

“There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides.” Whatever the old woman meant, it surely wasn’t good. How could she view the weavings of fate? Even powerful spirits could rarely get a glimpse at what may yet come to pass. “Believe what you will.” Her eyes moved to Ilras. He suddenly had the overwhelming feeling of being prey. A strange sensation for a Dalish hunter. “And what of you? Does your elven mind give you a different viewpoint? What do you believe?”

He had to answer. He knew he had to answer. “Believed or not, some things must be accepted.” That was the way of the world, after all. Things defied explanation, defied common sense, and yet inevitably had to be accepted.

“Ha! There lies the answer I hoped to get.” Ilras couldn’t tell if her praise boded for good or ill. “An open mind, yet not made of mush. Am I simply complimenting you? Wait and see!” Ilras shivered. He couldn’t help it. “So much about you is uncertain.” She was addressing the group now. No, the four of them. The four that Duncan had gathered together. “And yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do.” Believe in what? Them? Their destiny, if they had such a thing?

“So this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Could they not feel how powerful she was? Why did Alistair say that? Ilras was astounded how rude many of these people were being.

“Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it!” At her mother’s words, Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Oh, how she dances under the moon!” The old woman laughed.

Morrigan frowned and interrupted. “They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother.” This was her family? Ilras couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman.

“True, they came for their treaties, yes?” Morrigan’s mother held up a hand, pre-empting any objections. “And before you start barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these.”

“You… oh.” At least her words filtered into Alistair’s head before he could say more foolish things. “You protected them?” A foolish question was somewhat understandable. The entire situation was quite unbelievable.

“And why not?” The woman sounded indignant that she would even be asked such a thing. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them that this Blight’s threat is greater than they realise!” Ilras could tell her words held the truth. He didn’t know how. He just knew.

The dwarven prince’s brow was furrowed. “What do you mean the threat is greater than they realise?” It made sense that he was the one to ask. Dwarves were the race with the most concern for darkspawn, after all.

“Either the threat is more or they realise less.” Or both, Ilras’ mind provided. The woman continued. “Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realise nothing!” She laughed again. Ilras didn’t know if the others thought her merely a mad old woman or not. He hoped they could tell there was conviction behind each of her words. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

Morrigan lit up at that, looking positively ecstatic that they were about to be sent away. “Time for you to go, then.”

Her mother’s voice cut through the end of her statement. “Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests.”

Morrigan visibly sighed. “Oh, very well. I will show you out of the woods. Follow me.” Ilras looked around. The sun was starting to touch the horizon. They needed to get back. The burning in his blood had not subsided; he needed that cure, and soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please, any feedback, comments, criticism, whatever, feel free to let me know.


	5. The Joining and The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The recruits are officially made Wardens, and participate in the Battle of Ostagar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the rest of Ostagar, almost 8000 words later. Phew.

It felt good to be back in the king’s camp. The ground was steadier than the swamp, and Oraya could stand next to any one of a dozen fires. She was doing so now, still trying to remove the chill of the swamp from her bones. And, if she was honest, the chill of the witch that led them back to camp. The route Morrigan had led them back by was the quickest, but by far not the easiest. The dwarven prince was standing nearby, grumbling something about ‘wasting time’. The source of his frustration was currently speaking to the kennel master, a broad grin across his face. Ilras had insisted on delivering the flower to the man before they report back to Duncan, and the prince had reluctantly given in. Oraya didn’t understand why he was so impatient. It would only take a minute for Ilras to deliver the flower. Even as she was having that thought, the other elf was walking back to the three of them. His smile was so innocent, so pure, that Oraya couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Right, you’ve delivered your flower. Can we get this sodding ritual over with before you start… frolicking, or whatever?” And the other dwarf had killed the mood. Just like that. At least he wasn’t smirking this time. She almost wished the noble prat would do them all a favour and hit him.

Oraya rolled her eyes, knocking against the dwarf as she moved past him. “Of course, let’s not just enjoy doing a nice thing for one second.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise his hands in mock surrender.

“Sorry,” he drawled, voice dripping with insincerity, “just thought we should get this over with, fight this damn battle, then have a nice drink. And then hopefully sleep on something that doesn’t have sodding tree roots underneath it.”

“That’s enough, both of you.” The prince’s voice cut through the growing tension.

“Fine,” both Oraya and the dwarf said, with varying degrees of irritation. She glared at him one final time and pointedly ignored the way an eyebrow crept up his forehead, instead following the prince to the bonfire where Duncan was waiting.

He looked up at their approach. “So you return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?”

“We have.” At this point she wanted to waste time as little as everyone else did, so she appreciated the prince’s simple response.

“Good. I’ve had the Circle mages preparing.” Duncan’s arms dropped from his chest and he stepped towards them. “With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

“And what if we have second thoughts?” Why did that dwarf always have to open his mouth? Now she _really_ wished the prince would hit him.

Duncan grew stern, more so than she’d ever seen in the – admittedly short – time she’d known him. “Let me be very clear on that point. You are not volunteers. Whether you were conscripted or recruited, you were chosen because you are needed.” He looked each of them in the eye, his own gaze hard and unyielding. “There is no turning back now. You must gather your courage for what comes next.”

At this Daveth started fidgeting, his eyes darting around the area. Oraya hoped the man wouldn’t do anything stupid; they were surrounded by soldiers. “Courage? How much danger are we in?”

Duncan’s words came heavy and thick with meaning now. “I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are.” He paused here. Oraya saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Was it regret? “Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

Five people reacted in shock to this pronouncement, with gasps, clenched jaws, or widened eyes. The only ones that didn’t were the two Wardens and the dwarven prince. Oraya’s eyes narrowed. Had he known? She moved her eyes back to Duncan.

“I’ve come this far.” Oraya jumped at Ilras’ words; she had not expected him to speak. His voice was soft, but determined. He looked Duncan in the eye, his resolve clear. “I want to see this through.” Well, that made sense. He was the one staring down a death sentence without the Joining.

Jory nodded. “I agree. Let’s have it done.”

Duncan seemed relieved at the lack of open opposition. “Then let us begin. Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

 

* * *

 

Varlim hoped Duncan wouldn’t take too much longer. The others were getting impatient. Some of them were obvious; the knight with his pacing, the thief with his fidgeting and darting eyes. Others were less so. The duster’s lips were a thin white line, and the Dalish elf had a fist clenched at his side, trying to mask his pain. The girl was giving Varlim dark looks again. He didn’t know what that was about. He was tempted to ask.

The knight spoke before he could make up his mind. “The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it.”

The thief rolled his eyes. “Are you blubbering again?” Varlim hoped not. He’d heard more than enough from all his companions.

Jory sighed. “Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?” In Varlim’s opinion, he hadn’t. He couldn’t imagine what Duncan saw in the man. He complained too much, and didn’t seem to have the stomach to fight darkspawn for decades on end.

“Maybe it’s tradition.” The thief smiled for an instant before it was gone. “Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.” Well, if that were their aim, they were succeeding. Varlim highly doubted the Wardens would waste time on such a thing though.

“Stop yammering. You’re giving me a headache.” Fantastic, now Varlim was on the duster’s side. What was taking Duncan so long?

Jory glanced at the duster for an instant before going back to his pacing. “I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me… it just doesn’t seem fair.” Varlim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If Jory’s wife was with child, what possessed him to join the Wardens? The way he talked about it, it hardly sounded like he was conscripted. Were Fereldans really so ignorant of the Wardens that they were unaware of their lessened life expectancy? If Varlim had a child, he would hardly join the Legion of the Dead.

“Would you have come if they’d warned you? Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Wardens do what they must, right?” The thief made a good point.

“Including sacrificing us?” Of course. The lives of a few individuals in exchange for stopping the Blight? Varlim would die a thousand times over if it would drive the darkspawn from the Deep Roads.

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight.” Another good point from the thief. Varlim might have to respect him if he kept it up.

The duster cut over both of them before any more could be said. “Will you both shut up?” He might well have a headache to be so blunt, rather than jab at them with some glib remark.

The thief smiled again. “Yeah, ser knight, try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts.” Ancestors, Varlim hoped he wouldn’t. He’d seen more than enough soldiers soil themselves.

The knight finally stopped pacing. _Thank the Stone._ “I’ve just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade.” Varlim had seen his sort before, in the Warrior caste. The ones who excelled in training, were good soldiers, but were torn apart by the politics. It was always a shame to lose talented warriors to that viper’s nest.

Before anyone could reply, Duncan finally arrived. “At last, we come to the Joining.” His voice rang through the evening air, strong and clear. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation.” Duncan stopped at a stone table and placed something on it, out of their view. He turned to face them. “So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Varlim blinked in surprise, before the feeling passed. If he thought about it, it made a lot of sense. It explained how the Wardens always seemed to know when darkspawn were nearby. It explained their shortened life expectancy, even outside of blights. He glanced at the Dalish elf, whose mouth was slightly open. And it explained how the Joining would work as a cure for the taint.

“We’re… going to drink the blood of those… those creatures?” Jory yelped. His shock was understandable. Drinking darkspawn blood was hardly the most palatable thing to do.

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. _This_ is the source of our power and our victory.” Varlim saw that the others were getting more nervous each time Duncan spoke. He could see why, but he didn’t share in their anxiety. If anything, he was… excited.

Alistair spoke, all levity and humour gone from his demeanour. “Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.” Varlim was definitely excited now. The power to hunt them down, as they’d hunted his people down for centuries. The very idea was thrilling. The only thing that could appeal to him more in that moment was Bhelen bound before him, begging for his life. _One thing at a time._

“Let’s get on with it, then,” the Dalish elf said, voice soft.

Duncan’s eyes softened for a moment before he said, “We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first.” He turned to the younger Warden. “Alistair, if you would?”

Alistair nodded, and Duncan turned back to the stone table as the Warden stepped forward. “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.” Shivers danced down Varlim’s spine. This was it. “And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten,” Alistair paused for a moment, looking at each of them. “And that one day we shall join you.”

Duncan stepped back towards them as Alistair finished speaking, a silver goblet in his hands. “Daveth, step forward.” The thief was hesitant in his approach, but he clasped the goblet in firm hands. He drank from it, a grimace twisting his lips as he passed the goblet back. The rest of them leaned forward in spite of themselves, anxious to see what happened next. Daveth started twitching, small little movements at first, but they grew until he hunched in on himself. He grabbed his head in his hands and screamed.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory cried. His face was twisted in horror. Varlim suspected the others’ might be too. Daveth collapsed to all fours, great hacking coughs coming from him. He clutched at his throat and threw his head back. Varlim took a step back in shock. Daveth’s eyes were pure white.

“I am sorry, Daveth.” Duncan sounded genuinely remorseful as he watched Daveth fall to the floor, his pained breath finally coming to a stop. He turned to the knight. “Step forward, Jory.”

The man stumbled back, drawing his sword from his back as he looked between the Wardens and Daveth’s body. “But… I have a wife. A child! Had I known…” his voice broke.

“There is no turning back.” Duncan’s voice was regretful, but unwavering.

Jory continued to retreat from the other man, desperation clear in his voice and movements. “No! You ask too much!” he cried, finally coming to a stop against a pillar. Duncan placed the goblet on the table, and drew his dagger. Varlim heard the girl gasp. “There is no glory in this!” The knight was terrified. Varlim couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was a soldier out of his depth.

Duncan moved towards Jory, his intent clear. The knight looked around for an escape route, his eyes moving frantically. Finding none, he lunged at Duncan. Duncan dodged the sword, his movements swift as he knocked the knight’s blade to one side. He sank his dagger into Jory’s chest, his other hand cradling the knight’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Varlim heard him say. His voice shook, just slightly. He pulled out the knife, and Jory collapsed, a pool of blood growing out from the wound.

Duncan sheathed his blade and picked the goblet back up. He turned to the four of them. “But the Joining is not yet complete.” He said, walking towards the Dalish elf. The elf took the goblet from him, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. Whether from pain or fear, Varlim couldn’t tell. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.” Duncan’s voice was firm as the elf drank. Duncan took the goblet back and moved quickly around the group, handing it to each in turn. Only the duster seemed to hesitate, before he glanced at Duncan’s still bloody dagger. He drank quickly after that.

As the elves grabbed at their heads, Duncan came to Varlim. Steeling himself, he took the goblet from the Warden. Suppressing any thought, he drank. It was a foul mixture, sticking to his throat as he swallowed. He managed not to gag. Before long, he felt it. A sense of… wrongness creeping through his veins, all around his body. Then, the fire began. A burning from within, carried by his now tainted blood.

“From this moment forth, you are Grey Wardens.” Duncan’s words came to Varlim’s ears as though through a wall, muffled and distant. He screwed his eyes shut, the taint still working through him. Horrific images darted past his eyes, or maybe they were through his mind, Varlim couldn’t tell: a monstrous dragon stood on a twisted landscape, roaring over an advancing horde. It looked straight at him. Still burning, Varlim fell into darkness.

 

* * *

 

_Paragon’s tits, this feels like the morning after a night out with Leske._ Lotan groaned and cracked his eyes open. The two Wardens standing over him almost gave him a heart attack.

Duncan stretched out a hand. Lotan grabbed it, and was pulled to his feet as the Warden said, “It is finished. Welcome.” The residual pain was fading fast, which was a relief. But in its place, something felt off inside him. Lotan had the uncomfortable idea that it was permanent. _Sodding Wardens_.

Alistair’s face was sad, his lips taut. “Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died but it was… horrible.” He shuddered at some long past memory before looking around. The other three were standing, in various states of discomfort. The Dalish elf looked positively relieved, whereas the girl looked one wrong movement away from being sick. The prince was inscrutable. Alistair managed a ghost of a smile. “I’m glad the rest of you made it through.”

A wave of nausea passed over Lotan. He pressed his eyes shut and rested a hand against his temple. He heard Duncan speak. “How do you feel?” Lotan had no idea how to answer that question. He’d seen things in his sleep, something that was entirely new to him and very unsettling.

He decided to dodge the question. “It’s over. I’m fine.”

Alistair spoke up again, after helping the elf girl sit down on a nearby crate. “Did you have dreams?” Dreams. That’s what they were. That question answered, Lotan started to stretch. The stone floor was not kind to his muscles. Alistair kept talking. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

Duncan stepped back, seemingly satisfied that none of them were about to keel over. “Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.” He moved towards the ramp that lead into the ruined structure before turning back to them. “Take some time. When you are ready, I’d like Lotan and Varlim to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

Lotan blinked. He wasn’t aware Duncan had known his given name. And taking him to meet the king? Why? It was the prince that spoke next. “What kind of meeting?” Good question. Lotan looked to Duncan for the answer.

The Warden looked between the two of them. “The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. He requested the presence of some of the new recruits. I am not sure why.” He half-turned away from them again. “The meeting is to the west, down the stairs.” He indicated within one of the ruined halls, where people were clustered around a large stone table. “Please attend as soon as you are able.” With that, he left the five of them alone. Alistair departed not long after, apparently to speak with someone about what to do with the bodies. They’d been moved while the four of them had been unconscious, which was a relief. Lotan didn’t want to spend time in the company of dead men.

“Are you well enough to move?” The prince’s voice made Lotan jump. He hadn’t heard him move. He was put on edge by the lack of bite to Varlim’s words.

“Please. I’m not some pathetic lordling who can barely get dressed without half a dozen servants. I’m fine.” Lotan blinked at his own harshness. He hadn’t meant to snap like that. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to apologise. He stormed past Varlim towards the ramp. And if Lotan heard a sigh coming from behind him, he distinctly ignored it. He came to a halt a fair distance away from what looked like a war council. The garish armour of the king stood out in particular, but an older man speaking with him had similarly ornate equipment. Lotan heard Varlim stop next to him.

“If you could, try not to get us executed for insulting the king.” The edge Lotan had been expecting was back. He relaxed minutely. He was strangely comforted by the return to standard.

He put on his expected smirk. “Ah, you have to take all the fun out of things. Fine, I’ll stop myself from calling him a mangy dog.” The prince’s eyes narrowed. Lotan snickered.

“I’m glad you made that… generous concession.” Lotan doubted Varlim could sound any less sincere if he tried. It just made his smirk genuine. The prince sighed again. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

They walked towards the group, the words of the king becoming distinct as they approached. “Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault.” The king and Loghain looked like they had been having this discussion for some time. By the expressions of those around them, the rest of them were not enjoying it.

“You risk too much, Cailan! The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.” Loghain was angry, that much was clear, but he also sounded concerned. Lotan supposed any good general would be concerned for their king, particularly if they were as foolish as this one seemed to be.

Cailan suddenly looked smug. “If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all.”

Loghain’s face twisted, as though Cailan had just presented him with rotting meat. “I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!” He turned away in disgust, taking a few steps away from the king. Well, that had clearly hit a nerve. Lotan had no idea what the source of this disagreement was. Surely more troops were a good thing? Glancing to the side, he could see Varlim understood it, and was exasperated by it. Perhaps he’d ask him later. Lotan hated being out of the loop.

“It is not a ‘fool notion’,” Cailan scoffed. “Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past… and you will remember who is king.” That hardly sounded like a king secure in his authority. If a Carta boss talked like that, they’d be shanked within days. Why was Lotan here? It was just political bickering that he had no say in. It was Orzammar on a smaller scale.

“How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!” Loghain spat.

Cailan raised his head and looked down his nose at Loghain. “Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they?” He wheeled around to face the Wardens. Lotan and Varlim had come to a halt a small distance behind the Warden-Commander. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

Duncan brought his arms down from where they sat folded across his chest and nodded. “They are, your Majesty.”

Cailan relaxed a fraction. Clearly he felt this was badly needed good news. “And these are some of the recruits I met earlier on the road? I understand congratulations are in order.”

Varlim took a small step forward and dipped his head. “Thank you, your Majesty.” Lotan didn’t care that he’d taken the initiative. He hardly had the desire to make nice with surface royalty.

The king smiled. “Every Grey Warden is needed now. You should be honoured to join their ranks.”

Loghain scowled from his place behind the king’s shoulder. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality.” _Well, lovely to meet you too._

Cailan sighed, turning his head towards his general. “Fine. Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?”

Loghain’s shoulders dropped, from relief or exasperation, Lotan couldn’t tell. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signalling my men to charge from cover.”

Cailan was nodding before Loghain finished speaking. “To flank the darkspawn, I remember. This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes?” Cailan tapped on part of the map spread out on the table. “Who shall light the beacon?”

“I have a few men stationed there,” Loghain said quickly. “It’s not a dangerous task, but it _is_ vital.”

Cailan glanced up at the two new Wardens them. Lotan didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Then we should send our best. Send Alistair and the new Grey Wardens to make sure it’s done.” Lotan groaned inwardly. There went his hopes of somehow sitting the battle out.

“We’ll do our best, your Majesty.” Varlim said, perhaps spying the annoyance flickering across Lotan’s features.

Loghain sighed. “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?”

Cailan waved a dismissive hand. “Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they’re from.” That was true. Even Lotan knew that, and he’d barely spared the Wardens a thought before being conscripted.

Duncan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing.”

Loghain scoffed. “There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds.” The archdemon was a dragon? So _that_ was what he had seen after the Joining. Lotan shivered. He did not look forward to facing that beast.

Cailan raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?”

Duncan frowned for a moment before replacing his diplomatic expression. “I… yes, your Majesty.”

A man in elaborate robes rolled his eyes. “Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary.” The man’s voice was filled with arrogance. He sounded like every entitled noble who had ever spat on the casteless. “The Circle of Magi-”

He was cut off by a woman. “We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage! Save them for the darkspawn!”

“Enough!” Loghain’s voice cut through the bickering. “This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon.” He did not sound at all happy with that decision

“Thank you, Loghain.” Cailan gushed, with the enthusiasm of a child who had just been given a present. “I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!” He looked to be about two seconds away from running into the midst of the horde by himself, army or no army.

“Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all,” Loghian drawled. That was evidently their dismissal, as Duncan indicated that the Lotan and Varlim should follow him.

They returned to the bonfire, where Alistair and the two elves were waiting. Duncan turned to address the five of them. “Lotan and Varlim heard the plan. The five of you will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit.”

Alistair practically yelped. “What? I won’t be in the battle?”

Duncan looked at him, addressing Alistair directly. “This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teryn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

Alistair frowned. “So he needs five Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” Lotan didn’t see what the problem was. Surely a nice place off to the side of the battle was far better than being in the thick of it?

The prince’s brow furrowed. “The last time I was sidelined like this, I ended up exiled.” Lotan barely managed to smother his sympathetic wince. Why was he feeling sorry for the royal sod? That was unacceptable. He forced himself to smirk within Varlim’s field of view. The ensuing glare was brutal.

Duncan smiled sympathetically. “Ah, but we are far from the politics of Orzammar here, and you have no brothers to interfere this time.” The prince’s features hardened at the mention of his brothers. Duncan, sensing he had hit a nerve, quickly moved on. “We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn,” he looked at each of them in turn, pressing his words to hit home. “Exciting or not.”

Alistair sighed. “I get it, I get it.” His lips quirked. “Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

The elven girl laughed softly. “I think I’d like to see that,” she muttered.

Alistair grinned, turning his head to look at her. “For you, maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress.”

Lotan, Varlim and Duncan all sighed in unison. The older man carried on as though that whole exchange hadn’t happened. It was for the best. “The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp, the way we came when we arrived.” He indicated to the side, towards a looming structure. _That was a tower, alright. Wait. They want us to climb that? Sodding surface._ Not noticing the fear crossing Lotan’s features, Duncan kept talking. “You’ll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you’ll overlook the entire valley.” _No. No, sod that, I hate this plan. Put me in the main battle._

“When do we light the beacon?” Evidently the prince also failed to notice Lotan’s distress. That, or he simply didn’t care. Not that Lotan wanted the prince to see him vulnerable.

“We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for.” The younger Warden nodded at Duncan’s words, affirming what he said.

“We know what we have to do.” The prince’s voice was swift, decisive with military precision.

Duncan nodded, relieved. “Then I must join the others. From here, you five are on your own. Remember, you are all Grey Wardens.” He looked at them each in turn, eyes stern but not reproachful. “I expect you to be worthy of that title.” He started to walk in the direction of the main camp.

“Duncan…” Alistair called out. Duncan stopped, and half turned towards them. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Duncan smiled, a soft, almost sad thing. “May He watch over us all.” He left without another word.

 

* * *

 

Ilras had just finished stringing his bow when the skies opened. He clicked his tongue and sighed. It was almost time for them to move. Wasn’t it bad enough they had to fight a battle without adding rain into the mix? Ilras loved the rain, but it made hunting challenging. He imagined killing darkspawn in it would be worse. He cast a spell to keep the rain off his bow and out of his eyes, an easy habit by now after years of practise. The wind picked up, throwing stray hairs across his face. Sighing again, he quickly tied the blond locks up. It wouldn’t look good, but it would keep his vision clear.

Looking around, he saw the others getting ready in their own ways. Lotan was idly twirling his daggers, leaning against a pillar. He was keeping himself well out of the rain. Oraya had tied her hair back too, and was now tapping her fingers against the sheath of one of her swords. Varlim stood with his arms folded, looking outwards from where they were. He had finished preparing first, and hadn’t spoken a word to the rest of them. Alistair was fidgeting, his eyes lingering on the gate through which Duncan had departed almost an hour ago. It was the calm before the storm, though the literal one was growing in earnest. He could feel the interest on the other side of the Veil, spirits crowding around the area as they always did at momentous events. Ilras wondered what they would take away from this battle.

Horns sounded, bringing him away from the Beyond. Varlim turned to the rest of them. “That sounded like an order to form ranks. We should move.” Ilras shrugged internally. Out of all of them, he would probably know. Except maybe for Alistair. Ilras drew the string back once to test it, easing it back once he was satisfied. It was a shame everything had been rushed in the approach to the battle. He would have appreciated having the time to prepare some simple poisons. Ilras also wished he’d had an opportunity to speak with the mages properly. Wynne had been nice, but they’d barely been able to talk before their obligations called them away. The Keeper had been unable to explain his connection to the Beyond during his time with his clan, and Ilras had hoped perhaps the humans might know some things his people didn’t. Maybe after the battle he could get permission from Duncan to visit this Circle they talked about.

Someone clapped him on the arm. Ilras jumped and looked to the side. Varlim dropped his hand and met Ilras’ eyes. “Whatever thoughts you’re lost in, snap out of it. We need you here.” Varlim turned and marched away. “Come on, let’s move out,” he barked over his shoulder.

The rest of them followed, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Oraya and Lotan were grumbling almost mutinously, but Alistair just looked relieved that someone was taking charge. That was fair enough, Ilras supposed. Leadership was a heavy burden.

Sounds of battle started to reach them before long, a cacophony of steel and screams from the valley below. Ilras could feel spirits of compassion, valour, and hope, all converging on the field of battle. He could also feel despair, rage, and terror. He shivered, forcing himself to focus on his immediate surroundings. They were at the bridge now. Archers lined it on one side, firing down at the horde. The stench of pitch filled the air as they continued to light their arrows before each volley. A tower on the other side collapsed under the impact of a flaming projectile. Ilras flinched.

“Let’s cross the bridge and get to the Tower of Ishal!” Alistair cried over the din. They moved as quickly as they could. Ilras caught sight of a boulder hurtling towards the bridge. Towards Oraya. He opened his mouth to cry out a warning, but Varlim was faster. The dwarf grabbed her by the arm and hauled her back, the two of them falling over as the boulder crashed into the bridge. They picked themselves up, checking for injuries. Oraya nodded, the shortest of thanks, and the group was moving again.

They made it across the bridge without further incident. Ilras’ eyes lingered on the wounded and dead, dragged off to the side. There was a commotion coming from the direction of the tower. He listened, but his eyes remained stuck on the bodies. “Maker help us, they’re everywhere!” It sounded like a few people approaching them. Ilras knew he should look. He should pay attention. But the wounded… he couldn’t just ignore their pain. Could he?

“You’re… you’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you? The tower…” the man speaking trailed off, taking a deep breath in before continuing. “It’s been taken!” Ilras’ head snapped around. Two terrified soldiers stood before the group, one of them pointing up at the imposing structure of the Tower of Ishal.

“What are you talking about, man?” Alistair asked, voice quick and hard. “Taken how?”

The soldier who had been speaking took another breath. “The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers. They’re everywhere. Most of our men are dead!” His voice shook slightly.

Alistair’s expression hardened. “Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves.”

Off to Ilras’ side, Lotan sighed. “I thought this was supposed to be the easy mission.”

Ilras laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, swiftly withdrawing it when the dwarf shrugged him off. “Come on. We have to do it,” Ilras said, voice soft. “We’re Wardens. It’s our job.”

Lotan frowned. “Sodding Wardens... Fine.” Ilras smiled. Lotan rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that look.” Ilras’ smile grew. “Oh, for… stop that. Alright? Just stop that.” The dwarf walked away, a clear sign that the conversation was over.

The signs of battle once again made themselves known to Ilras, and his smile drained away. He nocked an arrow loosely on the string, bow angled towards the ground. His eyes flicked towards the tower. He could see hints of movement in their direction. “Darkspawn. They’re headed this way.”

The soldiers turned pale and fled towards the bridge. Varlim cursed their cowardice, but Ilras hoped they’d be safe. The Wardens moved towards the tower, Varlim and Alistair in the lead. Oraya and Lotan placed themselves on the flanks, and Ilras brought up the rear. They all had their weapons out, ready for battle. “Alright. We need to be fast, but be careful.” Varlim’s military experience showed through the confidence in his voice. “I don’t want to have to explain to Duncan why one of his Wardens did something stupid like charge an ogre.”

“Or piss off an emissary.” Lotan piped up, though his voice held just a note of anxiety.

Varlim huffed a laugh. “Definitely don’t do that. There won’t be enough of you left to fill a shoe.”

They carved a bloody path through the darkspawn between them and the tower entrance. Varlim barked orders left and right, directing them to work together. It mostly worked. Occasionally Oraya and Varlim would bump into each other trying to attack the same hurlock, or Lotan would cut an archer down just as Ilras was lining up a shot. There were close calls too, where an arrow passed close enough to Lotan to make him flinch, or a sword almost struck Alistair’s armour at the right angle to penetrate it. But they made it to the tower unbloodied. At least, not by any of their own blood. Ilras checked his quiver. He was running low on arrows. As quickly as he could, he moved between several of the nearby darkspawn, retrieving his arrows from their bodies. He wasn’t back at full capacity, but it would do.

“Is everyone ready?” Varlim asked, looking around the group. Lotan shrugged, everyone else nodded. “Good. Let’s go.” They entered the tower, moving carefully. They came upon the central chamber. The roof was far above their heads, great pillars holding it up. Flaming barricades were set up in such a way that anyone trying to get through would be pushed into a bottleneck. The fires licked at the air, illuminating the space in an almost eerie manner.

“Same approach as outside. And this time, try to stay out of each other’s way.” Varlim moved towards the barricades, when Lotan let out a sharp hiss, stopping him in his tracks. He turned on the other dwarf, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What is it, duster? We don’t have ti—”

Lotan threw up a hand and pointed with the other towards a group of barrels. “Step near that, and those barrels will leak all over the place. I bet they’re filled with grease. Set that trap off, and I guarantee some genlock will shoot a flaming arrow right in the middle of it.” Ilras studied the barrels. Sure enough, they were rigged with a tripwire of some kind.

Varlim grumbled beneath his breath before speaking up. “I see it. Good eye.” It sounded as though the compliment almost pained him. “Darkspawn are stupid though. There’s no way they’d lay a trap like that. Not unless there’s an alpha directing them.”

Ilras turned and hopped on top of a nearby scaffold. He kept low, surveying the room. “I see darkspawn. About a dozen or so. One has a staff, the sort mages use.” he relayed down to the rest. It was one of the short ones, twisted and clad in rough leather armour. It looked to be in a position of authority; the other darkspawn seemed almost afraid of it.

Varlim cursed, sharing a look with Alistair. “Emissary,” they said in unison, voices grave.

“Can you shoot him from where you are?” Alistair asked Ilras.

Ilras smiled, drawing his bow and letting loose a single shot. It went through the emissary’s eye, pushing through its skull as it landed face down. “I think I can manage.”

Oraya whistled softly, before being cut off by Lotan pressing his hand over her mouth. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Darkspawn have ears!” A hurlock saw the emissary’s body and emitted a strange roaring noise, alerting the rest of them. They started to prowl around the area. “Well, shit.”

Varlim surveyed the scene quickly. “Duster, take care of the tripwire. Alistair, with me. Ilras, shoot the bastards. Tabris, watch our flanks. Let’s move.”

They moved: Ilras dropping to one knee and launching arrow after arrow into hurlocks and genlocks, Lotan disarming the trap in time for the others to storm through, Varlim decapitating the tainted creatures, Alistair blocking arrows and blows, Oraya dancing between darkspawn, her blades flashing.

After it was over, Ilras filled his quiver again. “Everyone still alive?” Varlim asked. A round of affirmations. “Good. Let’s keep moving, we’re running out of time.”

They moved through the first floor, killing all the darkspawn in their way. Ilras did his best to avoid the mutilated corpses of the soldiers who had been guarding the tower. Varlim and Lotan seemed to ignore them, as though they were used to seeing death all around them. Ilras could see Alistair’s mouth pressed into a thin line, sorrow in his eyes. Oraya, however, seemed to become progressively more enraged. Her blows became more savage, her defence less careful.

They stopped at the top of the stairs, looking out at the second floor. From what Ilras could see, there were even more darkspawn there. He could almost feel them too, a strange sense that he couldn’t focus on. And something above them. Something that felt stronger.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair shifted the grip on his sword, eyes wide as he looked around. “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“Why attack the tower at all?” Varlim’s voice was grim and analytical. “Unless they know the plan?”

“Now that’s a scary thought.” Ilras agreed with Alistair. He could see everyone else did too. “They couldn’t know about the plan. How?” Alistair looked at them, as though one of them might know the answer. “They’re not that smart, are they?” Creators, Ilras hoped not. They were fearsome enough already. If they had a firm grasp of tactics, that just made everything worse.

“At any rate, we need to hurry!” Alistair continued after a beat. “We need to get up to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time. Teryn Loghain will be waiting for the signal.”

They moved through this floor much as they had the first, tearing through the darkspawn as quickly as they could. They did not end the fight unscathed. Oraya’s cheek was cut, slowly dripping blood down the right side of her face. Lotan was holding his side where a hurlock had caught him with a mace. But they were all of one mind; they had to keep moving.

They were better at working together on the third floor. Ilras would pin a darkspawn to the floor and Varlim would cut it down, Alistair would use his shield to push a darkspawn onto Oraya’s sword. But even at the rate they were moving, they were still running out of time. Ilras could feel the spirits around the battlefield. Spirits of hope were fading, replaced by demons of fear. He barely spared time to gather arrows before they moved to the next floor.

They ran up the stairs, all caution thrown to the winds in their increasing desperation to reach the beacon. A hideous form loomed in front of them, bent over a corpse. Whatever it was tore great chunks out of the body, devouring them greedily. Bile rose in Ilras’ throat. He gagged, forcing himself to keep his dinner where it was.

“Andraste’s ashes…” Oraya muttered, eyes wide. She looked as green as Ilras felt. The beast’s head reared, and it turned on them. It roared, a deafening sound accompanied with a stench that turned Ilras’ stomach. It moved, deceptively fast for a beast that size.

“Get out of the way! It’s going to charge!” The shove caught Ilras off guard and he flew to the side, just in time to avoid the beast rushing past. “Son of a- gah! Someone hit it!” Ilras pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. He saw Varlim caught in the thing’s grip, its hands crushing the dwarf’s middle.

From Ilras’ other side, he heard a yell. He turned in time to see Alistair run past, shield raised. He ran into the creature’s leg, sinking his blade deep into its calf as he collided with it. The creature roared once more, dropping Varlim to turn on Alistair. The dwarf hit the ground with a thud.

“Elf! Shoot the damn ogre!” Lotan shouted from the other side of the room, daggers flashing across the ogre’s other leg, slicing through muscle and sinew. “Preferably in the face!” Ilras fumbled his bow, heart pounding and limbs trembling. The thing was terrifying. He eventually nocked an arrow, tracking the beast’s head as it turned, trying to hit the Wardens darting around it. Ilras let the arrow fly, and it sank into the ogre’s head. Ilras let out a cheer, only for it to die when the beast whirled on him. The arrow had only hit the ogre’s cheek. It was terrifyingly insignificant. A mere twig, impaled through the skin of a giant. It moved with the ogre’s muscles as its face twisted into one of rage.

It stormed towards him. He stumbled back, trying frantically to nock another arrow before it got to him. He tripped over a loose flagstone, falling backwards. Pain lanced through his head. The ogre raised its fists over him. Ilras was frozen, stuck fast to the floor, unable to move or fight or blink. A roar sounded from behind him. A blur of movement sped overhead. Steel flashed. Blood sprayed. The ogre stumbled back. A figure leaped at it, driving it backwards. The beast toppled.

Varlim wrenched his sword from its chest only to raise the blade above his head and thrust it through the ogre’s neck. Its limbs twitched, and the beast fell still. Silence filled the room.

“By the Dread Wolf…” Ilras heard himself say. Varlim coughed and slid from the ogre, landing on all fours next to it. At once, they moved. Ilras scrambled to his feet as Oraya and Alistair moved to his side. Only Lotan stood still, eyes wide and mouth agape as he stared at the other dwarf.

Varlim coughed again, a wet, wrenching sound. He wiped at his mouth. Ilras saw red on his hand. He hauled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword. “Creators, that was…” Ilras trailed off. He bowed. “Ma serannas.”

Varlim waved a hand dismissively. “Save your thanks. I wasn’t-” He was interrupted by another round of coughing. He wiped the blood from his mouth again. “Wasn’t about to lose another soldier to one of those things.” He turned his eyes on the rest of them. “Would somebody light that blighted beacon already?”

Alistair looked from Varlim to the fireplace. “Alright. Oraya, watch him.” She nodded, though her eyes betrayed that she had no idea what she could do to help. The moment she touched Varlim’s side, he cried out and her hand jerked back as though burnt.

There was a low ringing in Ilras’ ears. He swayed slightly, catching himself before he fell over. Ilras felt for the back of his head. He jerked forward as pain seared across his skull. His fingers were red when he looked at them.

Alistair lit the fire and dashed across the tower back to Varlim. “Right. Do you think you can move? The healers are set up not far from-” Crashing footfalls came from the stairs, disorganised and chaotic. Ilras felt that same tug inside him, stronger now. Alistair’s face fell. “Darkspawn. Lots of them.” He turned to Oraya. “Stay with him!”

Varlim pushed her off him with a pained grunt. “Save it, boy. I can fight.” He staggered forward as darkspawn crashed through the doors.

“Creators have mercy…” Ilras gasped. There were dozens. His hands were numb. Lotan moved through the horde like a shadow, cutting hurlocks down left and right until a stray axe struck him in the back. Ilras couldn’t raise his bow. Alistair stood against them, shield raised high until it was cleaved in two by a genlock’s maul. Ilras couldn’t nock an arrow. Oraya screamed in rage and pain as swords flashed across her armour, tearing darkspawn to shreds until she too fell. Ilras could feel something on the other side of the Veil, pressing in. Archers were taking aim at him. Varlim made his way in front of Ilras, sword moving sluggishly against those darkspawn that made it to them. He collapsed, filled with black arrows.

The spirit came closer, almost reaching out to Ilras. He reached back, against the Veil. He could feel it, light, heat, power. In the distance, he heard a roar from the skies. Everything went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please, any feedback, comments, criticism, whatever, feel free to let me know.


	6. Two Witches and A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens survived the Battle of Ostagar. Five now stand against the Blight,and soon depart to hunt for allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this took longer than expected. But another chapter will be up soon, as I've actually written ahead this time.

Varlim came to with a shuddering gasp. His breath caught in his throat, a sudden tightness wrapping itself around his torso. He forced himself to slow his breathing, and after a time the tightness eased. He pushed himself up, leaning on his hands as he rose into a sitting position.

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother will be pleased.” Varlim jerked at the voice and winced at the pain that followed. He looked around, doing his best to remain calm. He was in a small bedroom, on an equally small bed. For a human, at least. There was a small window above his head, casting the room in a dull light. Herbs dangled from the rafters. And leaning against the wall was the witch from the Wilds. Morrigan, Varlim recalled.

“What happened to the darkspawn?” Varlim asked. It was the most pressing question. Close behind it was the matter of his equipment. He was in little more than his smallclothes, and his sword was nowhere in sight. The last thing he wanted to be was behind the horde without a weapon.

“You were injured, and then Mother rescued you. Do you not remember?” She moved away from the wall, her expression neutral.

Varlim pushed the covers back and lifted his legs over the side. They hung above the floor. He might feel humiliated by that fact, if he were a vain man. He pushed himself to remember. There was the tower, fighting through it, reaching the top. The ogre. His hand moved to his side almost of its own accord. His eye twitched, but he forced himself to ignore the pain.

He felt across his torso, mapping the damage with his hand. On his sides the skin was mutilated, from under his shoulders to his hips. He wasn’t surprised, the ogre’s grip had felt like being dipped in one of Orzammar’s lava flows. What did surprise him was how limited the damage felt. He remembered coughing up blood. Something like that was hard to forget.

Morrigan must have gleaned something of this from his expression. “Mother and I healed you as best we could. Unfortunately, your dwarven resistance made it more difficult, hence the scarring.”

Varlim nodded, hand dropping to the bed. “What happened to the army? To the king?” He couldn’t hear the tell-tale sounds of an army, either victorious or defeated. They were far from the field of battle, and far from the camp.

“The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle.” Shit. That wasn’t good. The situation must have been worse than they’d anticipated for Loghain to retreat. “Those he abandoned were massacred. Some of your friends… are not taking it well.” Morrigan sounded both uncomfortable and to a lesser extent sympathetic.

Varlim turned this over in his mind. It was a bad situation if the Fereldan army had been decimated. But not all the Wardens could have perished. It just wasn’t possible. Was it? “What happened to the Grey Wardens? And the king?” If nothing else, Cailan was a valuable figurehead in maintaining order. And given this defeat, order would be vital.

“All dead.” Morrigan’s answer was swift. Varlim cursed internally. “Your dim-witted friend has veered between denial and grief since Mother told him.” She moved towards the door. “He is outside by the fire, along with the rest of your friends. Mother asked to speak with all of you once you awoke.”

Varlim ran a hand down the lower half of his face. His beard was longer. They’d been here for some time then. He sighed and cast his eyes around the room in search of his equipment. Finding nothing, he frowned. “Where is my armour?”

Morrigan moved towards the other side of the room. “Ah, yes. In order to heal your wounds, Mother had to remove it. It was a lost cause to salvage any of it.”

Varlim sighed again. This day just kept getting better. “Well I can’t traipse around the Wilds in my smallclothes. Is there anything for me to wear?”

Morrigan placed a bundle on the bed. She unrolled it, revealing a mismatched set of leather and iron armour. “I advise you to not ask where it came from.” She turned her back to give him some manner of privacy.

Varlim dressed, his movements measured and careful. Eventually, he was clothed. It was uncomfortable, as half the gear had clearly not been designed for a dwarf, but it would do. For now. Morrigan reached for something leaning against a dresser. It was his sword. Varlim let out a breath and nodded his thanks as she passed it to him.

He shouldered the blade and moved towards the door. He paused and turned back to her. “Thank you for helping me, Morrigan.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, her lips parting. “I… you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

Varlim smiled, a twitch of the lip more than anything. “Even so, you have my thanks.” He dipped his head. “I will go speak to your mother.”

He opened the door and left, Morrigan’s somewhat flustered voice following him out. “I will stay and make something to eat.”

The duster was lurking outside the bedroom, leaning against the wall. He perked up as Varlim left the bedroom. Varlim closed the door. He repressed a sigh. “What do you want?” he asked, voice guarded. It was unlike the other dwarva to seek him out like this. Varlim didn’t trust it.

Lotan shrugged, his arms folded firmly over his chest. “It’s too open outside. And cold. And this hut is sodding small, so where else am I going to stand?”

Varlim arched a brow. It was somewhat credible, but he sensed there was more to it. He waited.

Lotan sighed. “Alright, fine. Everyone’s been acting different since the battle, and I’m sick of it. Alistair’s been crying and moping, Oraya’s been dealing with him, and Ilras has just been… weird.” He raised his head, his eyes daring Varlim to challenge him. “So, I figured you might be the least horrible option to deal with, considering how we all seem to be stuck here.”

Varlim’s lips twitched upwards. “Well, I’m honoured.” He moved past Lotan, towards the door leading outside. “Let’s see what Morrigan’s mother wants. Then maybe we can leave.”

They left the hut. The chill made its presence known, the still air suffused with cold. Varlim shivered. His new armour was no good at keeping him warm. He added warmer equipment to his mental list of requirements. He looked around the small clearing that the hut was built on, searching for the others. Oraya was standing on the opposite side of the fire to Morrigan’s mother. Her teeth worked at her lip, and her eyes flitted towards Alistair, staring out over the swamp. It took Varlim a moment to locate Ilras. He was a short distance away, sitting on a tree stump. He had a far off look in his eyes. Lotan was right. Strange.

Morrigan’s mother turned towards the two Wardens. “See?” She called over her shoulder to Alistair. “Here is the last of your fellow Grey Wardens. You worry too much, young man,” she chided.

Alistair had spun around before she had finished speaking. He took a few tentative steps forward, blinking as though he didn’t quite believe that Varlim was walking around. “You… you’re alive!” He laughed in relief. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

Varlim rotated his left shoulder in the joint. It was still stiff, but improving. “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.” He moved his eyes between the other Wardens, trying to evaluate their states of mind. There was still a Blight to deal with, regardless of how many died at Ostagar.

“This doesn’t seem real.” Alistair’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower.” His eyes were cast towards the ground now.

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad.” Her voice was soft, but the rebuke carried nonetheless.

Alistair turned to her. “I- I didn’t mean…” he stammered, “but what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

Morrigan’s mother smiled, giving Alistair a sly look. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, almost bulging out of his head. “ _The_ Flemeth? From the legends? Daveth was right…” his eyes narrowed. “You’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?” She waved a hand, dismissing the Warden. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you all well, has it not?”

Varlim stepped forward before Alistair could say something they might all regret. “Thank you, Flemeth.” He bowed in the appropriate way for one of his station. Etiquette training was hard to overcome. “Is there—”

“So why _did_ you save us?” The question came from Oraya. Her gaze didn’t waver.

Flemeth just smiled, seemingly unoffended by the rude interjection. “Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn.” Her gaze was piercing now, as though she could stare right into their souls. “It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight.” She tilted her head, as though curious. “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“Of course not,” Varlim growled. If it weren’t for the stupidity of the Fereldan leadership, this Blight could have been defeated by now. It was nothing to do with the Wardens.

“But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn!” Alistair cried. “The king had nearly defeated them!” His eyes turned angry. “Why would Loghain do this?”

Flemeth nodded slowly. “Now that is a good question. Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any creature.” Her lip curled in distaste, before she brought herself out of whatever dark memory she had recalled. “Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

Varlim quashed the urge to scoff. The darkspawn never needed an archdemon to be a threat. Typical surface attitude. In an instant, Flemeth’s eyes locked on him, as though she knew what had crossed his mind. The very idea of her being able to perceive his thoughts made his gut twist and his teeth grind.

“The archdemon.” Alistair’s voice was grave.

Oraya hmphed. “Then we need to find this archdemon.” Such a simple declaration. As though it would be a stroll in the park.

“By ourselves?” Alistair asked, raising a questioning eyebrow. “No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the army of a half-dozen nations at his back.” And no surface nation had held back the tide of darkspawn for over a millennium with no reprieve. They would find the archdemon, no matter how hard it would be. Alistair hesitated for a moment. “Not to mention… I don’t know how,” he admitted.

“How to kill the archdemon, or how to raise an army?” Flemeth asked, as though instructing a child. “It seems to me, those are two very different questions, hmm? Have the Wardens no allies these days?” Of course they had allies. Varlim’s father would dispatch Orzammar’s armies to defeat the Blight. The dwarves had fought against every Blight since the tainting of Dumat, they would not sit idly by now. Especially not with Ferelden so vulnerable.

Alistair fidgeted, eyes fixed on the damp ground. “I… I don’t know. Duncan said that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called. And Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely.”

Eamon. That name was familiar to Varlim. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember where from. One of his lessons? But which—ah, of course. “Arl Eamon, the arl of Redcliffe?”

“I suppose…” Alistair looked up, hope starting to dawn in his eyes. “Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Calian’s uncle.” A smile tugged at his mouth. The fire of hope was growing. “I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet.” At this point he was almost vibrating with excitement. “Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!”

Oraya jolted, as though remembering something. “What about the treaties Flemeth gave us?”

“See? There is a smart lass.” Flemeth’s voice was almost smug.

Varlim frowned. “Wait. We gave those treaties to Duncan. They must be back in the king’s camp.” Oraya and Alistair deflated, his smile twisting into a disappointed frown.

Behind Varlim, Lotan cleared his throat. “Well, funny story. I figured that we were going to defeat the Blight, so we wouldn’t need those old things.” Varlim took a deep breath, telling himself to remain calm as he turned towards the duster. “I also figured that someone might pay a lot for relics like that, some weird collector or something. So…” Lotan fished around in a pack he’d produced from somewhere. After a few tense moments he pulled out a small bundle of cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal the treaties.

Varlim silently thanked the Stone that the duster was an incorrigible thief. Now they might have a chance. Alistair laughed aloud. “Oh, that’s brilliant!” he shouted. Oraya just looked relieved. “Of course! The treaties!” Alistair continued. “The Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places!” His excitement was back in full swing. Varlim almost wished it were more infectious. As it was, they were still at a severe strategic disadvantage. They had to move as soon as possible. When they were safe, Varlim needed a map and time to think. “They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!”

Flemeth smiled. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows who else…” She paused, smile growing wider. “This sounds like an army to me.”

“So can we do this?” Alistair turned around, looking at them all with shining eyes. “Go to Redcliffe and these other places and… build an army?”

Varlim heard Lotan mutter, “As long as there’s some profit in it.” Varlim resolutely ignored him.

He thought the plan was workable, but they needed to remain realistic. “I doubt it will be as easy as that,” he said.

Flemeth laughed. “And when is it ever?” Well. Varlim couldn’t argue with that.

Alistair drew himself up. “It’s always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to stand against a Blight. And right now, we’re the Grey Wardens.” Varlim couldn’t argue with that either.

“So, you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?” Flemeth sounded pleased. Varlim supposed having a semi-legendary figure on your side was better than the alternative, but still. He wanted to get moving. He needed time to think, and movement had always helped with that in the past.

“Yes.” Oraya moved from foot to foot. It seemed she was just as eager as Varlim was to be on the move. “Thank you for everything, Flemeth.”

Flemeth smiled in that now familiar sly way. “No, no, thank _you_. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I.” Her eyes seemed to gleam, and her smile grew. “Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

 

* * *

 

Something in Flemeth’s tone set Oraya on edge. Morrigan emerged from the hut. The old witch’s eyes flicked to her daughter. She was plotting something.

“The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have five guests for the eve or none?” Morrigan’s voice made it clear that she would prefer the latter option. Flemeth smiled. Oraya could feel herself tensing.

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame—” Morrigan’s expression faltered as she processed what her mother said. She turned to her, mouth dropping open. “What?” Shock and no small amount of anger made its way onto her face.

There it was. Oraya’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want an apostate travelling with them. It would only draw unwanted attention.

“You heard me, girl.” Flemeth’s smile had not faded. If anything, it had grown wider. “The last time I looked, you had ears!” She laughed. Nobody else joined in.

Varlim’s expression had closed over, a calculating look in his eye. That did not bode well for Oraya’s hope of leaving the witch behind. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Varlim said.

Morrigan looked from the Wardens to her mother and back again. “Have I no say in this?” she asked.

Flemeth waved a hand in her direction. “You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.” She looked to . “As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

Oraya’s brow furrowed. It was all too convenient. “Was this your idea all along?”

Flemeth turned to face her. “Pardon me, but I had the impression that you needed assistance, whatever the form.” Oraya tried her best not to scowl. It might not have worked.

“Not to… look a gift horse in the mouth,” Alistair began hesitantly, “but won’t this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.” Oraya crowed to herself. Finally, someone brought it up!

Flemeth’s only reaction was to arch an eyebrow. “If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower.”

Alistair’s mouth twisted. “Point taken,” he conceded after a moment.

Morrigan still looked stunned. “Mother… this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready—”

Flemeth moved in front of her daughter. “You must be ready. Alone, these five must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn.” She placed a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder. It was a testament to her shock that Morrigan did not shrug it off. She didn’t seem the type to appreciate being touched. “They need you, Morrigan.” Her voice was measured and firm. Morrigan’s shock started to fade from her features. “Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

The witch’s eyes dropped to the ground. Eventually, she spoke. “I… understand.” She drew herself up. Flemeth moved away from her, and towards the five of them.

“And you, Wardens? Do _you_ understand?” Her tone was stern now, every word designed to make its mark. “I give you that which I value above all in this world.” She looked at them each in turn. “I do this because you _must_ succeed.”

Oraya remembered her father’s reaction to her recruitment. And that was when she was just one new recruit among many seasoned Wardens, not one of the last hopes for an entire nation. Of course this was important to Flemeth. It would be important to any parent. “She won’t come to harm with us,” Oraya said. She’d do everything she could to make sure of it.

Morrigan took a deep breath. “Allow me to get my things, if you please.” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked back into the hut. The door shut behind her.

Oraya looked around the group. Varlim had moved away and was now performing some sort of exercise, stretching his limbs. Probably testing how well he had healed. Lotan had vanished from sight, no doubt lurking somewhere nobody would find him. Alistair was trying to skip stones across the swamp. He didn’t look as upset as he had an hour ago, so Oraya left him alone. She turned to Ilras, on the far side of the open area in front of Flemeth’s hut. He hadn’t moved. Oraya frowned, making her way towards him. They all needed to be ready to leave, and more than that, she wanted to make sure he was alright.

Before she was within ten paces of him, he lifted his head. “Hello.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Something about his voice, the way he held himself… it was strange. He gasped, as though he could feel her unease. “Oh, no need to be concerned. I’m fine. It’s just… taken some time to adjust.” He shrugged, seemingly more to himself than anything else.

He turned to face her, still seated on the tree stump. He smiled. It was small, but earnest. “Really, Oraya. I’m fine.” A flash of gold light flickered across his eyes. Oraya blinked in surprise, but it was gone. There was no sign anything had happened. Maybe it had been the sun? But it was overcast, wasn’t it? She shook her head slightly. Must have been her mind playing tricks on her. Maker knew she was tired enough for it.

She sighed. “I wish I could say _I_ was fine,” she confessed. “There’s so much pressure now…” She trailed off, an uncomfortable weight settling over her as it all started to sink in. Andraste’s ashes, they were the only thing between Ferelden and devastation.

Ilras smiled. Somehow, it seemed to help. “As long as we have hope, we can find a way. So don’t lose heart, Oraya. There are many allies out there. We just have to find them.”

Oraya returned his smile, heart lightened by his words. She sat next to him on the tree stump, waiting for Morrigan in comfortable silence. After she came back, they could get underway.

* * *

 

The subsequent journey out of the Wilds would go down in their collective memories as a miserable experience. With a tiny fire being the most they’d risk most nights, food consisted of roots, berries, and what little dry food Flemeth had given them. Added to that was the everpresent threat of the darkspawn, and the group had to leave the roads on three separate occasions to avoid roving bands of hurlocks.

Through it all, Ilras tried to keep spirits up, but on the fourth day they were exhausted, hungry, and miserable. On the bright side – in Ilras’ opinion at least – they now had a dog: the very one that he'd helped save in Ostagar. Regardless of anything else, it was with great relief that they finally arrived on the outskirts of Lothering. That is, until they were held up by bandits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you have any comments, notes, criticisms, anything at all, I'd love to hear it.


	7. Loathing in Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens get on each others' nerves and vital information is gathered, along with two new companions in their quest against the Blight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Another chapter will be up soon," he said. "I've actually written ahead this time," he said. Well, six months later, here I am with another chapter, in case anyone out there still wants to read this. My deepest apologies for the delay! Please, feel free to blame the joys of tertiary education for it. I know I am.

Lotan groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t they just find the nearest tavern and collapse? First it was having to move through the forests, now it was a handful of incompetent-looking humans.

“Wake up, gentleman!” The bandit leader kicked one of the others in the shin, getting him to push himself off one of the many pillars lining the highway with a few sharp words. “More travellers to attend to.” His eyes were predatory and far too eager, finally landing on Varlim. “Led by a dwarf, oddly enough.”

If looks could kill, the man would be dead several times over. One of the other bandits nudged his leader, drawing his attention away from the Wardens. “Err… they don’t look much like them others, you know,” the man said, his voice hesitant and his eyes darting between them. “Uh, maybe we should just let these ones pass…” Huh, one of them had his brain on halfway straight then. That made a nice change.

The leader scoffed, adjusting his scant armour in what he probably thought was an intimidating way. “Nonsense! Greetings, travellers!”

Beside him, Alistair scowled. “Highwaymen,” the Warden spat, “preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.”

A fair distance away from Alistair, on Lotan’s other side, Morrigan sniffed imperiously. “They are fools to get in our way. I say teach them a lesson.” Now that was a good idea. Maybe the witch wouldn’t be as insufferable as she’d seemed.

The bandit leader laughed, nowhere near as nervous as he should be staring down six armed travellers and a mabari war hound. “Now is that any way to greet someone?” He tutted, clicking his tongue. Lotan’s hands moved towards his daggers. Cutting this idiot’s tongue out might improve his sour mood. “A simple ten silvers,” the bandit continued, seemingly oblivious to the mounting tension, “and you’re free to move on.”

At the head of the group, Varlim tensed. “You should listen to your friend.” Varlim’s voice was hard, and Lotan could imagine his expression with surprising ease. “We’re no refugees.”

The bandit from before – the one with two thoughts to rub together – looked to his leader. “What did I tell you? No wagons, and they look armed.” Lotan almost laughed. _Looked_ armed? They blatantly _were_ armed. You could hardly mistake Varlim’s sword for a walking-stick, or Alistair’s shield for an over-sized dinner plate.

The leader seized the other bandit by the arm, pulling him close. “The toll applies to everyone, Hanric,” the man hissed. “That’s why it’s a toll and not, say, a refugee tax.” He shoved the other man away from him.

The bandit made a face, as though he’d suddenly realised something of great importance. “Oh, right. Even if you’re no refugees, you still gotta pay.” He nodded, as though his saying that decided the issue. Paragon’s balls, were all Fereldans as stupid as their king and these idiots?

“Forget it.” Varlim said, already reaching for his sword. Lotan followed suit, unsheathing his daggers. “We’re not paying.”

Mere minutes later the Wardens were leaving the highway for Lothering, wiping blood from their weapons. The bandits had gathered a decent stash of supplies, which the Wardens were putting to good use. Varlim’s armour no longer looked as though it might fall off if someone looked at it funny; Oraya didn’t have to rely on a rusty dagger as one of her weapons; and Lotan’s coin purse was feeling comfortably heavy.

Alistair came to a halt, and the others followed suit. “Well,” he said, voice croaking slightly due to underuse. “There it is. Lothering. Pretty as a painting.” Lotan didn’t know what art Alistair was looking at to get that idea. The village was a mess. The fields closest to them were packed with tents and people, to say nothing of the crowds that filled the village itself. The place was overflowing, and unsustainably so.

Morrigan turned to face Alistair. Lotan sighed. The witch had been trying to antagonise the Warden for days. “Ah. So you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

Alistair glared at her. “Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

Morrigan smirked. “Before or after I stopped laughing?” Well, that sounded like a loving family. Lotan knew he didn’t have the best upbringing himself – his mother’s love of mosswine took care of that possibility – but even so, he didn’t wish her dead. To have sense knocked into her, maybe, but not dead.

Alistair blinked, clearly unsure how exactly to process the witch’s words. “Right. Very creepy. Forget I asked.”

Varlim gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Just get to the point,” he said, voice laced with exhaustion.

Alistair nodded, turning back towards Varlim. “Anyway… I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first.” His eyes moved between the others as well. At least he was including them in the discussion, even if Lotan didn’t give a blighted damn where they went next, as long as it had an inn.

“We need to hear some news before we can decide,” Varlim said. The bags under his eyes were a stark contrast to their steel colour.

“But we need to decide what our general plan is for afterwards, don’t we?” Alistair insisted. It made sense to Lotan that they should listen for any news they could find. After all, if certain roads were overrun with darkspawn, that changed where they could go.

“I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea,” Alistair continued. “These treaties…” he indicated towards Lotan’s pack. “Have you looked at them?”

“Yes, I have,” Varlim replied. They all had, at this point. Not that Varlim was polite in asking to see them. For a prince, the man seriously lacked manners at times.

Alistair nodded in acknowledgment. “There are three main groups that we have treaties for; the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi.” Lotan grimaced at the thought. A whole group of mages? Two was more than enough for him, thank you very much. “I also still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help,” Alistair continued. “We might even want to go to him first.”

Varlim looked around the group. Lotan shrugged; he didn’t care enough to voice an opinion. Oraya’s lips were pressed together and her brow was furrowed, but eventually she shook her head. “I’m not one for making grand plans,” she said. Ilras was barely paying attention to them, instead looking out at the refugees with a vaguely pained expression on his face.

“Then we need to find these people,” Varlim said. His face had set into what was now a very common stoic expression.

“I can give you directions, if you like.”

Lotan tuned out at that point. Everyone else was invested in the discussion, except for Ilras, who was still looking out over the village. Lotan moved to stand next to him, folding his arms and surveying the area with the eye of a skilled thief and sneak.

“I hope you don’t plan on stealing from these people.” The soft voice from his side made Lotan jump. He shot a look up at the elf, frowning. “The last thing they need is more suffering. They need help, and hope.”

Lotan scoffed. “What they need is to get themselves to a town with solid walls, and to find weapons. That’s what’ll save them from the darkspawn. Or each other. Hope is a luxury. They can’t afford it.”

Lotan felt the elf’s gaze more than he saw it. “I don’t know how you can believe that, Lotan. We need to help people.” Ilras turned back towards the fields. “Without hope, why should these people struggle to see tomorrow?”

Lotan rolled his eyes. “Well, I can’t sell hope for coin. I’d rather be rich and hopeless than penniless and endlessly optimistic.” His mother had waited for years for his father to return, a hopeful eye on the door. Until she slipped, and landed in the bottom of a bottle. Lotan would rather die than end up like that.

Their conversation was interrupted by Varlim moving past them. Lotan’s scowl, however, continued unabated. “Let’s go,” the prince called over his shoulder. Lotan grumbled under his breath, and followed.

The prince made his way through the town. At some point, Ilras moved off, spouting some nonsense about ‘dispelling their fears’ and ‘giving them hope’. It was typical idealistic swill, the kind that tended to make bile rise in Lotan’s throat. It was all useless. They’d leave, these refugees wouldn’t, and they’d be torn apart by the horde. They were weak, and the world would destroy them. That’s just what the world did. Say what you will about Orzammar – and Lotan often did – but it valued the strong. At least Ilras had taken his dog with him. The beast stank.

They made their way through the village. Varlim was putting his diplomatic training to use, talking to people as they passed. He spoke with the elder of the village, trading healing poultices for information with such skill that Lotan was sure the woman would have named the next child born in the village after Varlim, if he’d asked.

Weaving their way through groups of refugees, obvious deserters, and wide-eyed children, they arrived at the village’s tavern. The shingle proudly declared it to be the ‘Dane’s Refuge’. It was the only proud thing about the establishment. Much of the paint was peeling, the door squealed on its hinges as people came and went, and there was moss covering some of the stonework. Adding to the pitiful image were the shivering crowds huddled beneath makeshift awnings, clutching to what few ragged blankets they had. It was the kind of tavern that wouldn’t look out of place in Dust Town. If the casteless were allowed to run businesses there.

Warmth flooded out the instant Varlim opened the door. Lotan noticed several people nearby shift closer, hoping to catch the draft before the door closed. The tavern was surprisingly quiet for how many people were packed into it. A gust of wind blew the door shut behind the Wardens. The noise caused several people to look around, including a small group of heavily armed soldiers. They were now advancing on the Wardens, hard eyes glinting in the firelight. There was no way this was going to be good.

“Well,” one of them drawled. The state of his equipment and the way the others fell into step behind him made his position as their commander clear. “Look what we have here, men. I think we’ve just been blessed.”

Alistair drew in a sharp breath. “Loghain’s men. This can’t be good.” The Wardens shifted their hands towards their weapons, a movement echoed by Loghain’s soldiers.

The commander’s eyes slid from Varlim to Lotan. Lotan’s hands tightened around his knives. One of the soldiers cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t we spend all morning asking about two dwarves by those very descriptions? And everyone said they hadn’t seen them?” Lotan’s lip twisted. Loghain must have taken note of them when they attended that war council and told his soldiers to be on watch. Sodding fantastic.

The commander smirked. It was not a pleasant expression. “It seems we were lied to.”

To the left of the Wardens, a woman pushed her way through the small crowd that was gathering around them. Lotan tried not to snort at what she was wearing. It was the most absurd thing he’d seen in a long time, and that included Leske dressing up as a courtesan for a job. “Gentlemen,” she began in a thick accent. “Surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.” Her arms were outstretched, imploring them all to stand down.

The commander growled, swivelling his head to glare at the woman. “Out of our way, Sister.” Huh. She was some sort of religious figure then. That explained the ridiculous robes. “If you insist on protecting a traitor, I’ve no trouble teaching you a lesson.” The leer some of his soldiers gave at that removed any doubt as to what that ‘lesson’ would involve.

Lotan felt more than he saw Oraya stiffen next to him. “What makes you think we’re traitors?” she spat, barely concealed rage suffusing every word.

The sister turned to them. “Teyrn Loghain claims the Grey Wardens betrayed the king, or haven’t you heard?” Lotan blinked. It was a daring lie, one that was clearly being used to support a grab for power. It was full of holes though. What if enough survivors of the battle returned and told a different tale? Loghain would clearly never survive in Orzammar. In Dust Town, he’d be shanked before the day was out, and in the Diamond Quarter… well, he’d also be shanked, but his family would also be politically destroyed.

The commander spat in their direction. Lotan wrinkled his nose. That was just crass. “Enough talk. Take the Wardens into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way.” Oraya growled, and Lotan slid his knives from his belt.

“Right,” one of the soldiers said, drawing his sword. “Let’s make this quick!” Lotan smirked. It would be quick, alright. He darted ahead, feinting a strike towards one of the soldiers. He skirted around him as he moved to block a blow that never came. Lotan slid one of his blades along the man’s thigh as he moved. His momentum carried it further, blood spraying in his wake. The man grunted, leg trembling. He tried to spin to direct his shield towards Lotan. Out of the corner of his eye Lotan could see Varlim hammering against the commander’s sword, the man stumbling back under the assault, barely keeping his blade aloft.

Lotan moved his attention back to his foe, jabbing his other blade into the man’s side. The screech of metal scraping against metal filled the air before it found its mark. Pain blossomed across his skull. Lotan stumbled back, blinking hard. The soldier grinned, readjusting his shield. Warmth flowed down his forehead, and his vision turned red. No, half his vision. Lotan closed his eye and snarled. That was the last time he’d let that happen.

He surged forward, darting around the soldier in the opposite direction this time. He found a soft spot. His dagger sank into the man’s elbow. Lotan only stopped when the hilt rested against his skin, and he could see the stained tip of his blade jutting out the other side. Lotan felt the soldier’s arm go limp. His shield clattered against the ground. He ripped his knife out and jammed his shoulder into the man.

The soldier screamed as he fell, clutching his working hand to the wound. Lotan smirked, flicking the blood off his daggers. Then his body seemed to remember his injury, as his forehead started to sting. He cursed, wiping blood away from his eye and pressing a hand to the cut.

The commander’s sword fell to the floor as he stumbled away from the Wardens, eyes wide. “All right, you’ve won! We surrender!” Having the tip of Varlim’s blade to his throat probably helped him make that call.

Varlim cursed. “Duster, pull Oraya back.” Lotan narrowed his eyes at the pejorative term. “Now, Lotan,” the prince continued, voice strained. “Before she kills him!” The soldier that had tried to attack Oraya was curled up on the ground. The problem was the elf, kicking him. Repeatedly. Lotan rushed over, pulling her back.

She whirled, a growl already emerging from her throat. Lotan stepped back, hands raised. He didn’t want his head torn off by an angry she-elf. He’d never give that noble sod the satisfaction. Whatever fury had consumed Oraya soon dissipated, and she turned away from Lotan with a huff.

The sister was looking at them with concerned eyes, already sheathing her own daggers as she stepped away from the fourth soldier. Lotan recoiled in surprise. When had she pulled those out? And where in the Stone had she gotten them? The sister cleared her throat. “Good. They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now.”

Varlim’s eyes narrowed. Lotan could practically see him reach a decision. “I don’t want them reporting to Loghain,” the prince said. His voice was soft, but it sent shivers down Lotan’s spine.

The commander whimpered, and a sour odour filled the air. Lotan wrinkled his nose, grimacing. The commander wailed, “Please! Wait!”

The sister stepped forward, face twisted in shock. “They have surrendered,” she cried, desperately looking from one Warden to the next. “They were no match for you! Let them be!”

Lotan stepped forward despite the stench. “They were going to kill us,” he said. You didn’t just let a rival gang go after they attacked you. That was almost always a sign of weakness.

“But they failed,” the sister said, turning to Lotan. “And I do not wish death on anyone.” Lotan saw Varlim’s nostrils flare, but other than that the prince gave no reaction. Slowly, he moved the tip of his sword away from the commander’s throat. Not far enough away to tempt the commander to flee, but enough that he’d stop whimpering. At least, Lotan hoped so.

Varlim’s eyes darted to meet Lotan’s. After a moment, Lotan sighed, nodding once. “Then they can take a message to Loghain,” Varlim said, his eyes once again boring into the commander’s skull.

The commander almost collapsed with relief. “W-what do you want to tell him?” he asked, voice almost disgustingly hopeful.

Lotan smirked, looking over the battered and bleeding soldiers. “He’ll have to do better than this.” At Varlim’s look, he merely shrugged. It was true, after all.

“I’ll tell him,” the commander said, stepping backwards. “Right away. Now. Thank you!” He practically swept his men off the ground and out the door. It slammed shut behind them, and the tavern was silent.

Lotan wiped the last of the blood from his face. The wound was already clotting, which was a relief. Dabbing at his forehead like a dainty noblewoman didn’t exactly mesh well with his image.

While he was doing that, the sister had stepped closer to Varlim. “I apologise for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” Oh, no. Not another idealistic do-gooder. One was already more than enough for Lotan.

“I appreciate what you tried to do.” The prince’s voice was measured and polite. The perfect diplomatic response.

The sister smiled, a warm and earnest thing. “I am glad you found it in your hearts to offer those men mercy,” she said, directing the sentiment to all the Wardens. Lotan scoffed under his breath. If the sister had noticed, she ignored him, instead continuing to speak. “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering.” Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “Or I was.”

Lotan knew the signs of a good story. Before he could probe Leliana for details, Varlim spoke. “And is there something you wanted from us?” He was good, Lotan had to give him that. Albeit reluctantly. The words would have seemed confrontational, coming from anyone else.

Leliana perked up, eyes shining. “Those men said you’re Grey Wardens,” she said, once again addressing them all. “You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?” Lotan rolled his eyes. No, they sat around planning tea parties with the darkspawn. That’s why the dwarven empire was still the largest in Thedas.

Unimpeded by Lotan’s, or any of the other Wardens’ reactions, Leliana continued. “I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get.” She drew herself up to her full height, smoothing out several folds in her robes as she did so. “That’s why I’m coming along.”

Lotan frowned. What kind of person volunteered to travel with pariahs on what was almost certainly a suicidal fool’s errand? “Why so eager to come with us?” he asked.

Leliana merely smiled again. “The Maker told me to,” she said. As though that simple statement resolved everything, instead of painting her as a madwoman.

Somehow, Varlim managed not to take a step backwards before he spoke. “Can you… elaborate?” Ever the diplomat. Somehow he managed to sound like he didn’t think she was insane.

“I-I know that sounds… absolutely insane,” Leliana stammered. “But it’s true! I had a dream… a vision!” Her eyes were filled with determination, staring at them unwaveringly. Lotan supposed he could credit her conviction, if nothing else.

From behind them, Alistair sighed. “More crazy? I thought we were all full up.” Lotan couldn’t help but agree. This entire mission was crazy. Lotan was only staying because he had nowhere else to go. And who knows, maybe he’d find a nice stupid noble to rob blind. That would make it worthwhile.

Leliana frowned. She turned towards the people of the tavern, who were talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Lotan could see fear in many eyes. “Look at the people here,” Leliana began. “They ae lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos…” she trailed off for a moment, casting her eyes to the floor. “Will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this.”

She looked up, fire returning to her eyes as she gazed at each of the Wardens. “What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker’s work.” She took a step towards them. “Let me help!”

“We need more than prayers, I’m afraid.” Lotan couldn’t believe how calm and polite Varlim could sound in the face of this. He was barely holding in laughter, and there the prince stood all noble and diplomatic. It was annoying. Infuriating, even.

“I can fight,” Leliana said. “I can do more than fight. I was not always a lay sister.” Clearly not. Most sisters wouldn’t carry daggers around. “I put aside that life when I came here,” she continued, voice firm. “But now… if it is the Maker’s will, I will take it up again. Gladly.” She took another step forward, but her eyes changed from determined to pleading. “Please let me help you.”

Oraya hmphed from Lotan’s other side, evidently having recovered from her temper. “You feel sorry for the people? Help them here.” She indicated towards the people in the tavern. Despite the roaring fire, many of them were still shivering. Though, some of that could be fear. They did just watch the Wardens soundly defeat a group of soldiers, after all.

“Then what?” Leliana asked, rounding on Oraya. Her voice dropped, as though she was afraid to speak her next thought. “What happens when the horde comes?” Well, those stupid enough not to flee would die. It was obvious. Every dwarf was taught to run away from too many darkspawn. Except for the Legion, but those bastards were all mad.

Leliana pulled herself back up, conviction returning to her. “It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed.” Lotan saw Varlim’s eye twitch at her last words. He could sympathise. These people thought they had it bad, mere weeks into a darkspawn incursion.

Even so, the prince nodded. “Then join us, if you would fight them.” Wait, what? Was Varlim going mad too? Why would he take this madwoman with them? Lotan knew they were short on allies, but were they really _that_ desperate?

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought,” she muttered. Lotan huffed a laugh at that.

Leliana’s face lit up, completely ignoring Morrigan’s words. “Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance. I _will not_ let you down,” she said. Both her voice and her expression were radiating honesty. It was almost nauseating.

 

* * *

 

Varlim was annoyed. That was putting it mildly. Really, he was seething. He’d given the innkeeper a few coins for his trouble, and that was the problem. It was only him who handed money over. Varlim could distinctly see how full Lotan’s coin purse was. But did the duster offer even a few coppers? Of course not. A greedy little thief to the last.

But he could deal with that later. For now, he’d done what he could to gather information. None of it was good. The horde was advancing almost unopposed; Loghain had declared the Wardens traitors, and there was a bounty on their heads. And that was without mentioning the hundreds of refugees crowding the village. Supplies were being sold at an exorbitant rate; there was no room to spend a night in the inn – even the chantry was full. That meant another uncomfortable night on the road for all of them. If his back could talk, Varlim knew it would be cursing him to the Void.

“Shok ebasit hissra…” And now someone was speaking in what sounded like Qunlat. Thank the Stone for those lessons. Varlim could barely speak a word of it, but at least he could identify the bloody language. “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun,” the speaker continued. They had a deep voice, clearly masculine, one that reminded Varlim of stone being worked by Orzammar’s masons.

They were in the outskirts of the village now, and the area seemed abandoned. The only person Varlim could see was in a cage. Varlim moved closer. The voice continued. “Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.”

Ancestors have mercy, it was a Qunari. In Southern Ferelden. He was a hornless Qunari, but a Qunari nonetheless. What in the Void was he doing here? Varlim’s boot landed on a twig. At its snap, the Qunari looked up.

“You aren’t one of my captors,” he said, looking down at Varlim.

“I remember the Revered Mother mentioning this man,” Leliana said, keeping her voice soft and quiet, as though she might avoid the Qunari’s attention that way. “She called him a savage from the far north.”

The Qunari’s eyes glanced over to Leliana before moving back to Varlim. “I have nothing to say that would amuse a dwarf. Leave me in peace.”

It didn’t make sense for a Qunari to be here, locked in a cell. No matter how Varlim looked at it, it seemed to contradict everything he knew about the Qunari and the Qun.

“You’re a prisoner,” Varlim said. It was more to himself than it was to the Qunari. How was he captured? “Who put you here?”

The Qunari’s brow furrowed. “I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the chantry.” What could he have done to be locked in this cage?

“The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family.” Leliana’s voice was soft and mournful. “Even the children.”

The Qunari once again turned his head to look at Leliana. “It is as she says.” His voice was flat, virtually emotionless. But Varlim thought he could hear a note of regret in there. It was something he was familiar with.

“I am Sten of the Beresaad,” he continued. “The vanguard of the Qunari peoples.” His eyes had returned to Varlim. It was a heavy gaze – one that Varlim matched.

“I am Varlim. Pleased to meet you.” A prince must always put his best foot forward. Varlim wasn’t greeting a visiting Orlesian dignitary, but he was speaking to a Qunari. A Qunari who could be exceptionally useful against the darkspawn.

Sten’s eyes narrowed. “You mock me. Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands.” In another context, Varlim might have been offended. These dirty fields that stank of dog were hardly his lands. Sten relaxed, though it seemed more forced than natural. “Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough.”

Varlim could understand that perspective. Social niceties pale in comparison to reminders of one’s mortality.

“This is a proud and powerful creature,” Morrigan said, coming to stand beside Varlim. “Trapped as prey for the darkspawn.” She looked down at Varlim out of the corner of her eye. “If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” came Alistair’s surprised voice from behind them. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

Morrigan’s lips curled into a smirk. “I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.”

Varlim could almost hear Alistair’s eyes roll. “Yes, _that’s_ what I would have expected.”

Sten’s gaze had not shifted from Varlim. “I suggest you leave me to my fate,” he said. Varlim heard it again. That note of regret, of guilt.

“Aren’t you interested in seeking atonement?” Varlim asked. It’s what he would have sought, had he truly killed his brother. He would be here on a quest for redemption, rather than one of revenge.

“Death will be my atonement.” Sten said it with such certainty that Varlim was almost surprised. That wasn’t atonement. That just left one more corpse behind.

“There are other ways to redeem yourself,” Varlim replied. He could think of many uses for a Qunari against the Blight. They were infamous for their strength. It had taken the combined might of most of Thedas to drive them back centuries ago. Even one might help to turn the tide here.

Sten’s features barely moved, showing no emotion before he spoke. “Perhaps. What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?” If it were said by anyone else, Varlim would expect them to sound either dismissive or curious. Sten seemed to be neither.

“You could help me defend the land against the Blight.” Varlim was sure even the Qunari knew of the threat a Blight posed, especially one sent this far south.

Indeed, Sten seemed to show genuine interest for the first time. “The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?”

Varlim nodded. “Yes, I am. As are several of my companions.”

Sten tilted his head to the side, eyes sweeping over Varlim. It was a strange look on a Qunari. “Surprising.” Sten returned his head to a vertical position, evidently finished with his examination. “My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill… though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Varlim heard the duster laugh somewhere behind him. He couldn’t exactly be angry at Sten’s comment. Varlim knew they didn’t look like much. Still, it annoyed him, and made him yet more determined to outfit them properly at the first opportunity. They were Grey Wardens. No matter what Loghain said, they had a reputation to uphold. Varlim would make them look the part.

“Would the reverend mother let you free?” Varlim hadn’t met her yet. In his experience, those in positions of power often knew little of practical use. It was another reason many of Orzammar’s nobles infuriated him.

“Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance,” Sten said. “It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.” Once again, Sten showed no emotion that Varlim would expect to accompany those words from anyone else.

Varlim nodded. “I’ll leave you for now.” He didn’t want to let a warrior of the Beresaad waste away in a cage when he could be used against the Blight. But on the other hand, he was a murderer. Of innocents and children, no less. Once he had the key in his hand, he could decide. But it would require thought.

Sten’s reply was simple. “Farewell, then.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Varlim found himself slammed against a wall. “What do you think you’re doing?” Oraya hissed. “How can you even consider letting that… monster go free?”

Varlim scowled. They didn’t have time for foolish antics like this. “Because he could be an asset. A Qunari warrior seeking atonement by fighting the Blight? We’d be blasted idiots to throw that aside.”

Oraya’s glare intensified. “Is that all you can think about? Assets and strategy? What about the people he slaughtered? You heard Leliana. There were _children_.”

“Men and women who have done worse join the Legion of the Dead. Criminals are regularly conscripted into the Wardens.” Varlim refused to quail before her. “Think of how few allies we have to call on. It’s entirely possible that in this country half of the groups outlined in these treaties will refuse. What will we do then? We have five Wardens, a witch, a Chantry sister, and a sodding _dog_.” And thank the Ancestors that the mangy thing was nowhere near him. 

“How would we fight the horde? In what way could we even get close to the Archdemon?” Varlim continued. “Face it, girl. We need everyone who can hold a weapon, no matter who they are or what they’ve done. Now, if you’re finished with your tantrum, would you please take your sodding hands off me?”

Oraya let go of him with a growl. Varlim resumed walking towards the chantry without giving her a second glance, though he was fuming inside. It was like she _wanted_ to be a nug to the slaughter. Almost starting a fight in a public street, wanting to throw aside a valuable weapon against the Blight. Next she’d probably throw a tantrum about recruiting the damn mages. Surfacers and their hatred of magic. Varlim would kill for a detachment of mages to use against the darkspawn. They might even be able to retake Bownammar.

They made their way back through the village. Varlim ignored the refugees lining the streets, the cries of children, the begging of strangers. Any kindness done here would be as helpful as using a twig to stop a cave-in. Not that it had stopped Ilras from rushing off. Where in damnation was he, anyway? If they had to waste time searching for him, Varlim was going to end up in an even fouler mood.

The Chantry was by far the best maintained structure in the village. From stained glass windows and oak beams to stonework that practically shone in the midday sun, it was clear that this building was the heart of Lothering.

The Wardens drew strange looks. Curious glances, angry glares, frightened aversion of eyes. The only one of their group who was treated with courtesy was Leliana, yet even that was the restrained respect given to all members of the Chantry. At least the villagers were being honest.

As he entered the Chantry, Varlim’s focus was drawn to a tall, armoured man giving instructions to a group of Templars.

“We are the only hope of protection this village has now, and I will _not_ abandon them. That is all. May the Maker have mercy on us.” Finally, a man who understood his duty to protect his people. Varlim had begun to think that impossible of humans outside the Grey Wardens.

As he approached the Templar, the man looked to them. Exasperation flashed over his face before he schooled his features into a polite manner. “Yes? Who might you be?”

No better time to test the general attitude towards Grey Wardens than now. “I am a Grey Warden. You can call me Varlim.”

The Templar blinked once. “I… see.” His eyes flicked around the group behind Varlim. “I am Ser Bryant, commander of the Lothering templars,” he said, fully returning to his professional demeanour. “Teryn Loghain declared all Grey Wardens traitors, responsible for the king’s death.” Bryant clasped his hands together behind his back. “You know this, I hope?”

“I’ve heard the rumours,” Varlim said, placing clear emphasis on the last word.

Bryant nodded. “I don’t believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or malicious as the teryn claims, but either way, there it is.” His eyes moved around the central hall of the Chantry. “It is best you not linger, though. Just… in case.”

It was a relief to hear that not everyone vilified the Grey Wardens. It would certainly make their task easier. “Are you in charge here?” Varlim asked.

Bryant shook his head. “The Revered Mother leads this flock,” he said, indicating towards a room at the back on the chantry. “I merely command her templars. Normally, our role is to protect the chantry and seek out unsanctioned magic.” The templar sighed. “For now, it is all we can do to protect the innocent.” Varlim could sympathise with the man. His job was not an easy one.

“Are you the only protection this village has?” There couldn’t be many soldiers, given how close the bandits had been. But surely there had to be a few left.

Bryant’s expression darkened. “Our bann was summoned by Teryn Loghain, and he took his soldiers north with him. Lothering has been abandoned,” he said, voice laden with frustration and disappointment.

“About those bandits outside the village—” Oraya began.

“Maker’s breath!” Bryant cried, gauntleted fists clenching. “How many times must we drive them off?”

Varlim shook his head quickly. “They won’t bother you again. We killed them.”

Bryant faltered, anger dropping from his features to be replaced with shock. “All of them?”

A nearby templar stepped towards Bryant. “It’s true. I saw it from my post.” Varlim could see the templar’s eyes move across them. “It was over so fast we didn’t even have time to get over there.”

Bryant dismissed the other templar, his mouth a grim line. “Sad that it needed to come to that, but then, they asked for it.” He paused for a moment. “Will you accept a small reward for your service?”

Varlim bowed, a fraction of an incline. “Certainly, thank you.” It grated against his every instinct to be so… mercenary. But it was necessary.

Bryant handed Varlim a purse. It was moderately heavy for its small size. With a grateful smile, Varlim packed it away. Looting corpses. Earning coin from killing bandits. He dreaded to think what he’d end up doing next.

“Now, unless there’s something else you need…?” Bryant asked.

He might as well get to what he came for. “What can you tell me about the imprisoned Qunari?”

Bryant’s expression fell once again. There was a hate, a disgust in his eyes that seemed quite out of place. “I was there at the farmhold. The beast stood there, wet with the blood of the children. He didn’t even deny slaughtering them.” He was on the verge of spitting in disgust. It was only the sanctity of where they stood that seemed to stop him.

“The Revered Mother ordered him caged. She has more mercy than I do.” Bryant sighed heavily, briefly pressing a hand to his forehead. “But perhaps she is right, and the Maker has love for all his creations.” His lip curled, just a hair. “Even the Qunari.”

Varlim didn’t want to annoy the sole authority figure who seemed sympathetic to the Wardens, but he had no choice. “Is there a way he could be released?”

He could see Bryant’s jaw clench. “You can ask the Revered Mother. I say let him rot until the darkspawn claim him.”

Well, now Varlim had the information he needed. “We should go,” he said. Though it would perhaps be advantageous to gather more information, they had to get moving. A strategic hub like Redcliffe or Denerim was more likely to have pertinent information anyway.

Bryant nodded, his features schooled back into professionalism. “Travel safely, and may the Maker watch over you.”

With a nod, Varlim moved past him. Making his way through the chantry, he arrived at the back-room Bryant had pointed out, with the rest of the group close behind. He moved to enter, but was forced to move aside to make way for Leliana.

An elderly woman, reading a book from the only comfortable looking chair in the whole village, looked up with a calm smile. “Good day, Sister Leliana. I’m surprised to see you’re still in Lothering.”

An involuntary shudder ran down Varlim’s spine. She was one of _those_ authority figures. The ones who veiled every word, hiding their true meaning behind an innocuous face. It was Orzammar all over again.

“It is good to see you as well, your Reverence.” Leliana’s eyes kept moving from the Revered Mother to Varlim, as though she expected him to commit some grave social error. He almost scoffed at the thought.

“I do not recognise your… companions,” the Revered Mother said as she turned to face Varlim. Her eyes were unimpressed as they took in the motley crew. “Greetings. Will you be making a donation to the chantry? Our need has never been greater.”

And there it was. The same grasping as the Chantry’s diplomats showed in talks over lyrium supplies. Varlim would rather give his coin to the poor and suffering directly than filter it through their hands. Their fingers were far too sticky for any worthwhile charity. And yet, diplomatic negotiations required tact.

“What tithe is acceptable?” Varlim asked, the very image of earnest charity. He heard an undignified snort from behind him, along with a very audible sneer. Even without looking he could guess who the sources were.

The Revered Mother smiled. “Might I suggest thirty silver?” Varlim’s jaw clenched. It was a significant portion of the money they’d acquired, even with Bryant’s reward. Luckily, the other part of diplomatic negotiation was bartering.

“I am sorry, but I only have ten silver.” The loss would still hurt, but putting the Revered Mother in a good mood would doubtless be beneficial in having Sten released.

The Revered Mother’s smile became just the slightest bit forced. “One out of one is a more generous gift than ten out of thousands.” Coin exchanged hands, and she leaned back in her chair. “What can I do for you, then?”

Normally Varlim would play what the Orlesians called the Game, endearing himself to her further. But they had no time, and the very thought of it made him feel vaguely ill. “I want to talk about Sten, the Qunari you imprisoned.”

The Revered Mother sighed. “It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?”

“I want him freed. I might have a use for him.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Varlim knew he could have phrased that better.

The Revered Mother frowned, leaning forward again. “Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers.”

Varlim was fast losing patience with the woman. Obviously, he wouldn’t just turn the Qunari loose. “I was thinking you might release him into my custody,” he said as politely as he could manage.

The Revered Mother made a contemplative noise in the back of her throat before turning to Leliana. “And what do you say on this, Leliana? You know your friend better than I.”

Leliana blinked. “These are… unusual times, your Reverence.” She glanced at Varlim quickly before looking back to the Revered Mother. Varlim hoped she would go along with it. He was the only one who had wanted her to go with them, after all. She owed him.

“With us, the Qunari might do some good,” she said after a brief pause. Her voice strengthened. “I am sure of it, in fact.”

The Revered Mother shook her head slowly. “Were things not so desperate…” She sighed. “Very well, I trust you. Take these keys to his cage,” she said, holding out a small metal keyring that Varlim quickly accepted, “and Maker watch over you.”

Leliana bowed to the old woman. “Thank you, your Reverence. Your trust is not misplaced.”

With a snarl, Oraya turned on her heel and stormed out of the chantry. Great. Now Varlim had two people to find before they left Lothering.

 

* * *

 

She had to get out of there. Oraya couldn’t bear to watch that smug, arrogant, noble bastard any longer. She felt Alistair’s hand brush her shoulder as she passed, but she shrugged him off. Her hands itched for her blades. She forced her way through the people gathered in the chantry. She ignored the shocked mutterings of humans surprised to see a ‘knife-ear’ behaving as she was. It was nothing she hadn’t heard a thousand times before.

Once outside, she cast her eyes around for something, anything, she could do to vent her anger. The chanter’s board. A job killing bandits, or spiders, or wolves would suit Oraya just fine. She scanned the notices, finally deciding on one branded with the Templar seal. Three groups of bandits, north of the village. Oraya growled, hands flexing by her sides. That would do. That would do very well indeed.

 

* * *

 

Oraya wiped blood away from her jaw. She couldn’t tell which corpse it belonged to, and there were several strewn before her. It had felt good to tear through them. Not as good as it had felt to kill Vaughan and his men, but it still felt _good_.

She resisted the urge to grin. They were bastards, thieves, murderers yes, but they were still people. She wasn’t taking pleasure in this. It felt good because she was helping the innocents of the village. That was all.

Her eyes flicked upwards to a thin tendril of smoke some distance away. Two more groups to go.

 

* * *

 

It was her blood smeared across her face now. An arrow had nicked her cheek. She’d paid the bandit back though. She’d paid them all back. She panted, glaring at the motionless bodies. Her hands still twitched slightly as the adrenaline surged through her veins.

She was almost done. It was just a job. She wasn’t enjoying the feeling of her blades sliding through flesh, the way the bandits slumped as the life fled from their bodies. One more group. One more set of bandits. Then she would be done. Then she would stop.

She began to move, but her legs gave out from under her. She collapsed onto the grass, feeling warmth beneath her leg. Her fingers found the source. A gash in her thigh that the thrill of combat had masked until now. She snarled, slamming her fist against the ground.  She couldn’t _wait_ to hear what that stuck-up princeling would think of this. She’d show him.

Grunting, she hauled herself to her feet, wobbling slightly as she stood. Her steps were uneven and halting. She pressed a hand to the still-flowing wound, pressing down in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was enough to stop her from fighting.

“Oraya! What are you doing out here?” Blonde hair entered her view, followed by ice-blue eyes. Oraya swore she saw flecks of gold in them. She was jolted by Ilras’ hand pulling her own away from her thigh.

“Mythal’enaste…” he quickly muttered an incantation, hands glowing against Oraya’s skin. A prickling warmth spread across her skin as the flesh knit itself back together. He looked at her with worried eyes.

Before he could say anything, she pushed past him. “Thanks,” she said after a moment. She shouldn’t take out her anger on Ilras. He didn’t deserve it. She stiffened at the feeling of a wet snout pushing itself against her hand. _That_ wouldn’t do anything to help her mood. The last thing Oraya wanted to do was agree with the dwarves on anything, but was a mabari hound really something they wanted with them? The Blight could take years to defeat, could they afford to bring a dog with them? Oraya shook her head, remembering the look on Ilras’ face when the dog had run up to him on the road outside Ostagar. She would put up with the beast, for his sake if nothing else.

She turned to Ilras, lips tugging upward into a smile. “How’d you like to give me a hand clearing up some bandits before we go back to the others?” The mabari barked happily and Oraya grinned. Maybe the dog wouldn’t be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you have any comments, notes, criticisms, anything at all, I'd love to hear it.


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